The Story of Mr. Hurston

When I was eight, my mom got a new job and we were forced to move to a new state. I had to move schools and I couldn’t see any of my old friends anymore. And, to make it worse, all of this came about in the middle of summer.

We moved to a neighborhood that had, as my mom put it, grown up. There were no kids. The youngest person besides myself was the 24 year old who flunked out of college and moved back in with his parents. I was stuck with no one to play with for a whole summer until I could meet new friends at my new school in the fall.

One sweltering summer day, I had nothing to do and would not stop bothering my mother, who had the day off.

“Go outside and play,” she ordered, sweat beads dripping down her forehead as her hair was whisked away from her face by the fan.

“But MOOOOOOOOM!” I moaned. “It’s hot outside. Can’t you take me to a pool? Or the park? Or...”

“Enough!” she shouted, tugging at her chaotically messy hair. “If you don’t get out of my sight in the next three seconds, I will lock you outside until kingdom come. Do you understand?”

I opened my mouth to speak, but figuring that it was not in my best interest, I shut myself up and trudged outside into the baking afternoon sun.

I decided to pretend that I was trekking through the African plains. It was hot enough out, and I had nothing better to do. So, I set off down the street.

Everything became something else. Dogs were rabid hyenas, lawnmowers were growling lions, and the lawn refuse bags along the street were zebras trying to get a drink in the busy river.

All of a sudden, the old wooden porch of the house behind me creaked. I turned, holding my hands as though they were holding a rifle. “Who are you? Are you a native of these hot lands?”

“I would think I was,” came the voice of the elderly silouette on the porch. “I raised my kids here and have lived here myself for thirty-four years.” The man stepped out of the shadow to reveal a portly old man, probably about five foot six inches. He had wispy gray hair and a scraggly beard on his chin. One hand was in his pocket and the other held a beer. “Put that gun down, son. I’m a friend, not a foe. Come on up here boy.”

I hopped up on to the porch obediently.

“You want something to drink? What’s your name?” he asked, motioning for me to follow him inside.

“I’m Marshall. I just moved here with my mom.”

“Ahhh. So you’re the new tenants in the old Ferguson house.”

“I would guess so. But it’s the McMullen house now. That’s my last name. McMullen.”

“Well, it’s very nice to meet you Marshall McMullen. I am John Hurston.” He smiled and handed me an orange soda from the fridge. “Come and sit down. Tell me about yourself.”

And thus began my friendship with Mr. Hurston. I went into great detail about my life before we moved here and all my old friends. I came back day after day and would sit and talk to him for hours. He always listened, and he never interrupted me. I would go over there after lunch and would leave at about six, when he told me he had to take his medicine.

After about a week, my mother got curious as to what I had been doing between lunch and dinner.

“I’ve been at Mr. Hurston’s house,” I told her, taking a sip of my milk.

“What?” she asked, putting down her fork and knife with more force than usual. “You are not to go back there, do you understand. He's a bad man. He's an alcoholic, and I will not have you hanging around with such bad influences.”

“But Mom!” I began, ready to defend my new friend, but I was quickly shot down.

“No buts. That's final,” my mom began to clean up dinner, which was my signal to go up to my room.

The next day, I was busy with my Africa adventure again. I had nothing to do now that I couldn’t hang out with Mr. Hurston anymore.

“Marshall. Come on up here, boy. You’re late,” Mr. Hurston called from his porch. He already had my orange soda sitting out.

“My mom doesn’t want me to come here anymore Mr. Hurston,” I said, shading my eyes with my hand so I could see his face.

“Well, why ever not?” he asked, a puzzled look on his face.

“She says you're an alcoholic, and that you’re a bad influence on me.”

“Well, I’ll just have to have a talk with your mother to change her mind, now won’t I?” He stood slowly and began down his porch steps. “Lead the way, young explorer.”

I led him to my house as quickly as I could, pausing to wait for him every so often. When I got there, my mom was out on the porch, as though she was waiting for us.

“Marshall? What are you doing with him? I thought I told you not-”

“Mrs. McMullen? I meant to talk to you about that,” Mr. Hurston spoke softly, his head down slightly out of respect.

“It’s Ms. But, alright, I’ll hear you out. Marshall, go inside.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but Mr. Hurston gave me a look that suggested I didn’t, so I tramped inside and waited.

When my mom came in, she was crying.

“You can go see Mr. Hurston whenever you like,” she said quietly, her voice scratchy.

I ran up and hugged her. “Thanks Mom. It means a lot to me.”

“I’m sure it does,” she said, fresh tears in her eyes.

After that I was almost constantly at Mr. Hurston’s house. We talked about everything, his family, my family, when he was in the war, everything. He would listen to my stories, and I would listen with rapt attention to his.

One day, the week before school was to start, my mom came into my room crying.It was a Saturday, and my mom and I had gotten back late the night before from a weeklong vacation to our old town to visit my grandparents and friends.

“What’s wrong, Mom?” I asked, dreary from sleep.

“It’s Mr. Hurston. He’s been hospitalized. The doctor’s don’t think he will last much longer, but he wants to see you.”

I was confused. He never mentioned being sick. He hadn’t even looked sick. Nonetheless, I got dressed and ready to go. My mom drove me and led me to his room, but she stayed outside.

The room was small. There was a little TV on a wall mount, a bed side table, a painting of the ocean, and a lot of machines next to the bed. The body that lay in the bed I assumed was Mr. Hurston. It looked nothing like him. He was pale and thin, not the bright, portly old man I had come to know. There was a chair in the corner, which had an older woman seated in it, probably not more than fifty years old. She looked up as I entered.

“You must be Marshall. I’m Suzanne, Mr. Hurston’s daughter. He has told me so much about you.”

“Really?” I asked. I didn’t think Mr. Hurston would have talked about me to his family.

“Yes, he has. He is very impressed with you. He told me that you reminded him of what he was like when he was your age. He was very proud of you.”

“He was? But why?” I asked, looking at the sleeping man in the bed that I still couldn’t believe was Mr. Hurston.

“Because not only did you talk to him, but you listened. And, you didn’t let his ‘problem’ scare you away. He'd been so lonely since my mother died a year ago. But, he’ll be with her soon.” Suzanne was crying as she spoke. She kept glancing towards her sleeping father while fresh tears cropped up.

“Why? Why is he dying?” I asked, confused as to how he had gotten so sick in a week.

“He has been for awhile. He has cancer. He stopped therapy at the beginning of the summer. Your visits helped him forget about it for that little while you were there.”

A noise came from the bed. I turned and Mr. Hurston was looking at me, an enormous smile on his face.

“I was hoping I'd get to see you again. I have something for you,” He shifted in his bed and winced, his face full of pain.

I approached slowly, more afraid of hurting him than anything else.

“Don’t be scared, kid. Come over here.”

I went to the right side of his bed, my eyes pointed towards the floor. I could see Mr. Hurston remove something from the drawer of his bedside table. “I’ve been meaning to give this to you for a long time,” he said as I looked up to behold a small wooden toy gun with a small silver chain wrapped around it.

“These were mine when I was a child. I thought you would like to have them.” He began coughing heavily and I stepped back a little until he was done. “Seems I won’t need it where I’m going.”

I took them gingerly in my hand and turned them over. The little gun had the initials J.M.H. carved into them in a childlike manner. The silver chain was clipped around the trigger portion of the gun, but could be easily removed and worn as a necklace.

“Thank you, Mr. Hurston. I love them.”

“I’m glad you love it. And thank you. You made my last summer here much more bearable.”

Before I could say anymore, one of the machines started beeping. A nurse ran in and shooed me out. I pocketed the gun and chain, afraid my mom would make me give back my new treasures.

Mr. Hurston died later that night. I was invited to the funeral, but it was scheduled for my first day of school, so I couldn’t go.

I put on that little silver chain on the first day of school, and haven’t taken it off since.