The Most Dangerous Animal of All (38 page)

At first I didn’t want to look, so I stared at the flowers adorning graves as far as the eye could see. I noticed litter and debris lying on the ground. I couldn’t help but think of my grandfather, buried at the glorious Arlington National Cemetery, among the patriotic faithful in peaceful, hallowed ground.

I thought about Gertrude, whose grave I had visited not long before, in San Bernardino. She had lived through the deaths of the only three men who had ever loved her, their deaths coming in rapid succession in 1984: the commander, her first husband, in March; her second husband, John Harlan Plummer, in April; and her son in May. I had sat cross-legged at her grave and talked with her for the first time. She had died alone in a mobile home in 1986. There had not even been an obituary written.

I knew somehow that she had suffered like the rest of us in her own way. Sitting there, I had poured out my heart to her, but when I left, I didn’t say, “I’ll be back.” I didn’t say, “I hope you’re happy and at peace.” I simply told her that I loved her and that I was so sorry that she had not been able to accept love when it had first been offered to her. That had cost so many so much.

As I looked around, I couldn’t help but be happy that my grandfather had not lived to see his son buried in a pauper’s grave. This would have been unbearable for such a proud man, who had preached about the joy of heaven at so many of the dignified funerals of his parishioners.

Finally, I noticed that Sergio and Alejandro were standing between two marble grave markers that faced a small lump of barren ground. Alejandro whispered something to Sergio, reverently removed his straw hat, and placed it over his heart, then bowed his head.

“He is here,
señor
.” Sergio pointed to the unmarked mound of earth at our feet.

For a moment I couldn’t speak.

I stood there, silent in the presence of my father.

Again I looked around at the memorials on the other graves, placed there carefully by indigent family members who would forever miss their departed ones. Most of the tombstones displayed beautiful crosses, paving the way for their loved ones’ entrances to heaven. And then I looked at the mound of earth that had never been visited by anyone except Edith. There was no cross here.

Finally I asked Sergio to ask Alejandro if I could leave some pictures on the grave. One was of me and William, and the other showed me, Judy, and Zach.

“The pictures will be blown away in the wind and will be litter by the end of the day,” Alejandro replied to Sergio in Spanish. “But I can dig a hole over the spot where his padre’s heart would be, and I can put them there.”

Alejandro placed his hat on the ground. He dug a hole about sixteen inches deep, right over my father’s heart. Stepping back, he bowed as I knelt down and placed the pictures in the hole. After he covered the photos with dirt, I handed him and Sergio fifty pesos each.

“Un momento, por favor
,
”
I said.

Alejandro replied in perfect English. “Take all the time you need,
señor
.”

Sergio said he would wait by a nearby willow tree.

I realized that for the first time since the day he had left me in the stairwell, I was alone with my father.

I knelt down, trying not to let my anger get the best of me. I loved this man in some inexplicable way. He was my father. We were bound together by an invisible, unbreakable rope, yet I hated him so much for the things he had done. I looked up and asked God to help me say the right things. I prayed the way Leona had taught me. I asked God for forgiveness for my father. I asked Him to have mercy on Van’s soul. And I asked God to forgive me for the anger I felt about what my father had done—not only to me but to so many others as well.

As I looked down at the ground, I saw my tears striking the dirt that covered my father. It occurred to me that Van had hated to hear me cry.

Right then, I let go.

I poured out my heart to him—all the pain, all the anger.

And then the forgiveness Leona and Loyd had instilled in me.

As I walked away, I noticed the storm clouds retreating behind the volcano.
“Adiós, mi padre
,
”
I whispered, wishing with all my heart that he could have been the man I wanted my father to be.

Wondering how long I had been there, I looked down at my watch. I realized it was May 17—the anniversary of the day Earl Van Dorne Best had died and Gary Loyd Stewart had been born.

56

In 2002, when Leona and Loyd first met Judy and Frank, I had been in a state of pure happiness as we sat at the table sharing a meal. I had felt so blessed to have not one but two beautiful mothers. As time went on and I began to search for my father, I often worried about how all of this would affect my adopted parents. They had been so good to me, and I didn’t want to hurt them through my search for my father.

I had always realized how much the strength of my mother and her extraordinary faith had shaped my life. But one year, around Father’s Day, I began to recognize how much the search for my identity had strengthened my love for Loyd, how much he had quietly supported me in his own way. Father’s Day had never meant as much to me as it would now.

When we were children, my sisters and I would always sign the card my mother had bought and give it to him before going to church. As we got older, everyone in the family would pitch in to buy Dad a nice gift—a barbecue pit, a new television—and we would each give him our own personalized Hallmark card. This year, there was no Hallmark version that could say the things I wanted to say to my daddy. By 2009 I had a better understanding of what Father’s Day really meant, so I made my own card:

Daddy,

Today, I had to go down to the City Court Building on St. Louis Street to take care of some business down there. As you know, parking is always a problem downtown, but I found a space on the corner of America Street and St. Charles that charges five dollars for the entire day. I parked there and went to take care of my business.

You know, now that I have spent so much of the past years researching my past and finding all of the complicated details about my abandonment on North Boulevard, that area of town has become a favorite place of mine. I guess in my heart I wish Van had really tried to leave me at the First Presbyterian Church there, but I know and have now accepted that I may never know the real story about what happened on that cold March day. What I do know is that this area of town, Beauregard Town, is now very special to me. In my heart and mind, it is a sacred and holy place. Every time I get a chance I try to drive by or park my truck and walk by the old Lytle apartment building. I do this quite often. There’s just something about the place that draws me there, back to my beginnings.

But something different happened to me today. When I exited the parking lot on America Street, I turned left and drove three blocks, then turned left onto St. Joseph. As I drove north, I saw the courtyard where Van must have carried me into the back of the apartment building. I stopped there for a minute just to wonder and daydream and listen to what God was trying to tell me. For so long now, I have wondered just what Van might have been thinking and what was in his heart.

Did he love me? Did he care? Did he cry? Was he sorry for what he was about to do? All these things have been in my heart and on my mind for so long. As I sat and cried and listened, I got my answer. It doesn’t matter what Van did or what he felt. There is only one thing that matters about what happened that day. What matters is what God did.

For four and a half hours, I was alone. But Daddy, now I see I was never alone. Today, I realized that the moment Van placed me on that floor and walked away from his crying son, someone very special was watching over me. I’m sure as Van slipped out of that building hoping not to be discovered with his evil heart, he might have looked back or maybe even shed a tear. I don’t know. But I do know that God saw the whole thing. He knew that this child was alone, unprotected, and He wrapped me up in His love and protected me until Mrs. Bonnette came home from work.

Maybe Van didn’t shed a tear, but I bet God did when He witnessed the actions of this father abandoning his only son. I just think it breaks God’s heart to look upon evil. I think as God watched Van exiting that building, His displeasure with Van fueled His heart to find the perfect father for this child. I believe that in those hours, God calmed me and sat with me there on those cold and lonely steps, comforting me and making His plan for my life.

I know that as God babysat me that day, He decided this child had to be given to someone very special, someone with His heart. That must have been when God hand-picked you to be my father. He knew that it would take a special kind of love to heal the scars left by the biological father, and there was only one person suited to fill that role.

I just wanted you to know how grateful I am that God made the right choice by giving me you. I love you with all my heart.

Happy Father’s Day

Gary

My dad didn’t want to read the card in front of everyone who’d gathered at his home that Sunday afternoon, so he went into his bedroom. In a few minutes, he emerged with tears streaming down his face. He told me that card was the best gift he had received in his life. He wrapped his arms around me in a big hug and whispered, “I love you, Gary.”

I will never forget that moment.

Three years later, on June 16, 2012, the day before Father’s Day, my mom and dad got up to their usual routine. Mom made Dad’s coffee and then returned to her bedroom for her daily devotional time. Dad took his coffee to the computer room, as he called it, where he read the Bible every morning.

When Dad finished reading, he put on his old work tennis shoes and his sweat-stained ball cap. “Okay, hon. I’m ready,” he called out to Mom, letting her know it was time to work in the garden.

As they walked out the back door onto their new brick-paved patio, Dad looked around at the sunny blue sky. Before he even closed the door, he began to sing, to thank God for the beauty of the day.

Oh, Lord, my God.

When I in awesome wonder

Consider all

The worlds thy hands hath made.

Interrupting, Mom did what Mom sometimes does. She couldn’t help herself. It was too early in the morning.

“Loyd, shush. Not so loud. You’re going to wake the entire neighborhood.”

Dad just smiled. “Well, they need to hear it,” he said.

“How great Thou art!” he sang louder, bending over to pick up a brick that was holding down a tarp he had used to protect the flower beds from recent heavy rains. He stood up with a brick in his right hand and looked toward the sky.

In that instant, the Lord called my daddy home.

Before his beautiful sweet, sweet shell of a body hit the ground, his spirit had already soared to heaven, his voice still praising his God.

I have no doubt that God took him this way because He knew how much my father hated good-byes. In reward for a life so well lived, he had been spared a long illness and the pain of having to say good-bye to his loving wife and family.

As I was writing his obituary on Father’s Day, I wanted people to know what a wonderful man he was, how funny and kind and loving. I forgot to mention that he had been a deacon for many years at Istrouma Baptist Church. That had been one of his proudest accomplishments. I had been so focused on describing the kind of husband, father, and grandfather he had been that I forgot something that was so important to him. I’m sure he got a big chuckle out of that.

Istrouma Baptist Church was packed on the day of his funeral service. Hundreds of people whose lives he had touched in one way or another filled row after row or stood in line to say their good-byes to this fine man.

As I stood before all of those people, I proudly told the story of his life—how this simple man had made such a difference in the lives of his wife, his children, his grandchildren.

In the days after the funeral, I couldn’t help but think about the differences between my two fathers—the one who had abandoned me and the one who had raised me as his own. I wondered what my life would have been like if I had grown up with Earl Van Best Jr. instead of Harry Loyd Stewart as a father. I know I would not have become the man I am today, the man Loyd taught me to be through his words and through his actions.

Yes, my biological father was a child rapist and a serial killer, but my real father, the man who loved me, who worked so hard to give me a good life, is in heaven, still watching over the son he so lovingly took into his home and into his heart.

57

It has been twelve years since Judy found me, and I have to say that it was one of the most significant days of my life. The wounds we inflicted upon each other over these years are healing, and we visit as often as we can. I recognize now how hard all of this must have been on her. I understand that she was still a child when she gave birth to me, and I cannot hold her responsible for the actions of another. I can’t blame her for not wanting to remember things. I wouldn’t want to remember such things, either. Five years ago, Judy started the Tucson Adoption Reunion Support Group, her way of making amends through counseling and advising other adoptees. The work she has done through this group has helped change many lives.

In January 2010, Tania called to inform me that William had passed away. I was very distressed by his loss, because we had become very close. I could always count on his honesty, no matter how much the details might further convince me of my father’s sins. In the few years I knew him, he had become like an uncle to me, Uncle Bill.