I met Tom Riley sometime around 1986. I was best friends with his youngest boy, Tim, and as such was a frequent stowaway at Tim's mother's duplex. Tom was there most weekends as well. Even though he and Tim's mother were divorced, they got along well and you could tell he enjoyed being near his boys. It occurs to me now, that this was Tom's insurance policy. He stayed close to remain in his son's lives and protect their shared relationships. He didn't let the break-up of a marriage impede him from the duty of parenting, and perhaps more impressively, he didn't use it as an excuse. He continued to teach his boys how to become men. And when the time came, he acknowledged their arrival.It should be noted for those that did not know him, Tom Riley was a big man. Often, a person is described as big, figuratively - a "big" philanthropist, a "big" businessman. While these labels may have also applied, what I mean to say here is that his size was impressive. He had a shock of thick hair that at the time was more silver than black, always neatly cut and fixed. He carried a scent of masculine cologne with a undertone of cigarette smoke. I noticed even back then that he had the build and hands of an athlete, although it would be in his obituary that I would discover he had been a scholarship member of the football squad at the University of Tulsa. He had a deep voice and a relaxed laugh. He was handsome and strong, but never showy.
Whenever I was in Tom's presence, his focus was exclusively on his children and their friends. He doted on his boys. He hugged them and kissed them and called them "baby" and "honey" which initially struck my ear as effeminate, or at the very least, emasculating. What I would come to understand is that in the Riley's shared language these terms were not used in relation to gender but rather, spoke to level of affection. He loved his boys deeply and without shame.
The first time Tom addressed me in such a way was mat-side after a wrestling match I had lost. I was disappointed in my effort, and I was not a gracious loser. He wrapped his arms around me and said, "Honey, shake it off. You're a star. You'll get 'em next time." He cupped the retreating side of my sweaty head in his oversized hand and pulled it into his chest, mashing my face into his sweater. After that, I didn't care what he called me. I kind of just hoped he'd always be there when I lost.
As the years passed and we made our way to college, Tim and I found new sets of friends and interests. Our circles overlapped on occasion but with less frequency than in our teenage years. Understandably, I saw Tom less as well. I was too preoccupied at the time to know how much I missed him, but looking back on it now, it was evident.
The last time I saw Tom Riley was at Tim's wedding, it must be more than 15 years ago now. He was happy. He had so many people crowded around him, celebrating with him, that I was reluctant to approach. But he caught me in mid-slink and carved his way towards me. "I am so proud of all you boys, you all have really grown up to be fine young men" he said, absolutely beaming.
I didn't have the guts to tell him I was failing most of my classes, or that I didn't really know what the hell I was doing with my life. I couldn't have expressed how lost or scared I was that I would never know what or who I was supposed to be, even as we were celebrating the union of two people who were defining a significant part of their new identities - husband, wife. All I could really do was smile sheepishly and accept his misplaced praise.
Sometimes you can find yourself so physically removed from a person you admired earlier in life, that the time you spent together seems fictional. I don't know if my recollections of Tom - the way he looked, the way he talked, the way he acted - are true, or if they were constructed in decades of absence to fit the narrative of my life. I feel certain that I can see him in a v-neck sweater with a starched, button-up shirt underneath. I am fairly confident that I can recall the smell of leather and cigarette smoke belonging to the interior of his car (some kind of Ford - a Thunderbird, or maybe a Taurus?). My memories are slippery and I am often suspicious of them.
One thing I am sure of is that I enjoyed being around Tom. He never talked down to me or treated me like a kid. He cared for me because I was his son's friend. He cared for me whether I won or lost, whether I was right or wrong. For whatever reason most of my friends grew up in households affected by divorce, their fathers absent physically or emotionally or both. Tom was a father in a world that needed more fathers.
It's has taken a long time for the lessons I learned from being around Tom Riley to take hold. I guess I had to have a child before they could fully manifest. Legacies have a peculiar way of appearing at the right time.
Anyone who knows me well will tell you that I love my boy publicly, without shame - and that I call him "baby", "honey" and "darling" without a moments thought to how that might sound to any other person. I know the day will likely come when my son will be embarrassed of my affection and attention. I am prepared for that. When he questions my motivation for such behavior, I will be proud to blame it on Tom.
