Hardy’s Mother

Hardy’s Mother

WHEN I WAS A GIRL, I thought that mothers of sons were more angular than mothers of daughters. I have only sisters and my mother was round from her elbows to her knees. Hardy’s mother was lean with a long, sad face.

Hardy was dumb. Not “developmentally disabled,” just slow. In junior high, his mother was grateful to children who were kind to him because, of course, many weren’t. Kindness took no effort on my part because Hardy was loyal and adoring. I wouldn’t have dated him, but it never came to that. His mother kept an eye on him. Hardy was tall and good-looking, easily misled by girls with romantic intentions and boys up to no good.

In ninth grade, after we studied the Romans in history, Hardy gave an oral report on the Greek invasion of England. To our delight, he demonstrated the battles with mock swordplay. Best report ever. At first, our earnest young teacher suggested to Hardy that he meant Roman invasion but he said no. Eventually, the teacher had to excuse himself from the room because his face was red with the effort of not laughing. Later, the teacher blamed himself for the confusion. I told him to look on the bright side, the report was a hit and wasn’t it possible the Greeks had been there first? He had explained to us that the archaeological record was incomplete.

Hardy lived on a farm, in a part of Maryland lost to suburbs in the next few years. His mother probably drove him to our private school in D.C. because public elementary hadn’t gone so well. That’s why most of us were there. Once, she had the whole class out for a Halloween party with a hayride. I had never smelled hay before or seen so many stars.

On our class camping trip to Assateague Island, Hardy spotted the wild horses first and helped the city boy teacher pitch tents and build the bonfire on the beach. They looked like men together. We sang the new Beatles song “Norwegian Wood” over the roar of the waves and ate roasted marshmallows laced with sand.

When we packed up the last morning, a pair of girl’s lacy underwear surfaced unattached. Hardy hung them on a tree branch and asked loudly if they were mine. This embarrassed me, because my classmates might think he had a reason to ask me, and because I only owned white cotton panties.

“Oh, Hardy, no,” I said, thinking he missed the naughty import.

“Too bad,” he said, smiling. Then, I blushed.

After that year, Hardy returned to a public school near his home. I rarely thought of him, although when I gave birth to boys myself, I thought of his mother, how she worried. How she wanted to protect him.

I did run into him as an adult once, unexpectedly. On a trip back home, I visited the new Vietnam Memorial. I traced his name, engraved in stone.

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Toni Martin is a physician and writer who lives in Berkeley.

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