As I read, it occurs to me that—in my head—I am reading her words in her voice. It is the kind of voice one might expect upon first meeting her: breathy, catching in her throat, halting, tremulous. She seemed always to have just come from some bit of exertion, as if she had sprinted over to you right before she spoke. It was a voice that got what it wanted from the listener: it was always better to give in to her if only to shut her up.
Her writing bordered always on the edge of indecipherability, and it is no different, here. I re-accustom myself to her child’s cursive… large, looping letters, bunched together, slanted to the west because of her left-handedness, m’s and n’s and u’s much too alike.
Her choice of writing instrument seemed to be whatever was at hand, mostly ballpoint, sometimes pencil. Several times, a pen would fail her mid-paragraph even as she coaxed the last bit of ink from it; the words seem embossed on the page and I have to hold the letter up to the light to read what she has written. One letter is written entirely in red ink. Another one is executed in a fountain pen whose black ink soaked through the page, nearly obliterating the text on the reverse even as that text overwrote the obverse. That letter I lay aside.
She wrote as she spoke, hesitantly, crossing out words, lines, entire paragraphs of text as she struggled for meaning. Lines go up the margins sideways, snake around, push their way between previously established content. The language is manic and discursive.
The one constant in this communication is her choice of stationery: ruled pages torn from a grade-schooler’s composition book; the deckle-edge on the wire-bound side flakes off as I turn each page until I am surrounded by a literary kind of dandruff.
I read her words as I have gone through the many moldering sheets of ephemera scattered in her house: dispassionately, as if I have been charged with reading the work of a stranger talking about some other stranger. To do otherwise is to fall once again into the byzantine maze of her mind. Her tone never wavers; it is always harrowing and hectoring, arrogant and strident. I wonder if, in the end, she knew she was talking only to herself in these letters; surely she must have understood at some point that I was not reading them, refused to read them, returned them to her unopened and unacknowledged.
An hour after I started, I finish the last letter, dated only a year ago. My mind is clotted with the ichor of her poisonous syntax, of adjectives and verbs and nouns clamoring for recognition that I can only deny. Each new letter builds upon the last, sounds like nothing so much as the plaintive demands of a spurned lover… why can’t you and you never and please, can’t we just and I need you to, and I’m done.
Teresa pokes her head around the corner and we stare at each other. She smiles. “Please, don’t hurt me.”
I grin. “No promises.”
She comes to sit beside me on the low brick step.
“Where did you find them?” I ask.
“Up in her closet, in a box.”
I tap the thick brick of papers. “She was persistent. I’ll give her that.”
“You never read any of them.”
I shook my head. “No. I thought I already knew what she would say.”
“And?”
“Lucky guess—I was right.”
“What are you going to do with them?”
What am I going to do with them? “I don’t know.” I look at her. “Do you want to read them?”
I can see that she does, really, but, “No,” she answers, holding up open-palmed hands in defense. “None of my business.”
“I don’t mind, Teresa.”
She shakes her head. “None of my business,” she repeats.
“How’s Daddy holding up?”
“Good. Drunk as a skunk, but okay. He’s been talking about things. Which I guess is good.”
“I think he’s beginning to understand. Did he talk about the house?”
She shakes her head. “No. Not really, but… I don’t think he wants it. Maybe he does. I don’t know.”
“I think he wants the idea of it.” Teresa looks at me, frowns. I go on. “Daddy’s always been a romantic, I think, underneath it all. I think he and Mom had some notion of what they wanted out of life when they bought this place. Reality just didn’t match up, in the end. For either of them. Maybe for all of us.”
“Mmm… ”
I smile. “You don’t agree.”
She turns to me, smiles in return. “It’s not that. You’re probably right. Maybe I’m just not a romantic. Maybe that’s what I got out of the whole thing, watching the two of them disintegrate. Romantics can be very selfish people. They need other people to play along, make the whole thing look… plausible. I just couldn’t do it.” She looks down at her feet. “Is that why you left?”
“No. I left because I just got tired of listening to her. About everything, not just about me.”
She reaches over, picks up one of the letters, flips it over and over in her hand. “Well, maybe now you can stop listening, Mark.”
“Yeah.” I look up at the trees, willows, my mother’s favorite, one of the first harbingers of a coming spring, slender and delicate, now green and shaggy as a sheepdog. “Earlier… ”
She glances at me, looks away. “Yes.” Confirmation in that; she knows that I know she was listening.
“I should have stayed.”
“It wouldn’t have mattered.”
“It wasn’t fair to you.”
“I know. You already said it. But… she’s gone and I’m not, and if that sounds selfish, then so be it. I have Duane and I have the kids, and I think my life means something. Whatever role she had in that, I don’t know. Maybe what I want most out of this is for my kids not to hate me as much as they probably will. I’m not sure I care, at this point.” Teresa stands up, reaches a hand down to help me up. “And, now, I want lunch. You need to eat; Daddy definitely needs to eat before he passes completely out.”
I grab the letters, put them in Duane’s truck for safekeeping until I can figure out what to do with them.
—
My phone buzzes; I pull it out.
Tom.
Just got out of the meeting. Want. Beer. Now.
I grin, type.
Day drinking is not a good sign. BTW, we have beer here. And have been drinking.
Ha! Where are you?
Mom’s house.
I’m just down the street.
Come on over.
You sure?
Absolutely. Lunch?
I can bring it with…
Hmm. Hold on.
I walk to the back yard, wave my phone. “This is Tom. He can come by, bring lunch, if we want.”
Duane and Teresa look at each other. “Absolutely,” my sister responds, smiling. She thinks for a moment. “If he’s downtown, there’s a pretty good pizza place just down from the courthouse.”
I type that.
I know where it is. I’ll surprise you.
Thanks. See you soon.
I pocket my phone, grinning. “He said he’ll surprise us.”
Teresa darts a sidelong glance to our father, who seems to be trying —not too successfully—to follow our conversation; does he even remember Tom? “I’m sure he will.”
—
Twenty minutes later, we hear a truck rumble to a stop out front, followed a few seconds later by…
“Hello? Hello, hello, hello… ” fading away into silence, a mock echo.
I chuckle. “We’re back here!” I shout.
And here he is, two large, flat boxes balanced in one hand, the other holding onto a cloth shopping bag. He’s in a light-blue dress shirt whose sleeves are now rolled up past his elbows, and dark gray trousers over dress shoes, and I can’t wipe the silly grin off my face.
My father rouses himself enough to lean forward. “Is that… Tom Hanna?”
“Yes, Daddy, it is,” I respond, as I stand up to go help Tom.
“I… oh. Well, okay… ” So, maybe he remembers something.
I take the pizzas from Tom as he hoists the bag up and sets it down with a clunk! on the table. He pulls out some soft drinks and bottled water, and a twelve-pack of some craft beer. I open one of the pizzas; it’s about the same size as the tires on Duane’s truck.
“Good Lord, Tom… ”
“They had a two-fer deal going on; how could I say no to that? Pace yourself.”
Duane reaches over, takes out a couple slices, puts them on a paper plate. “Speak for yourself. I’m starving.” He bites into one of the slices; half of it seems to disappear into his mouth. Around it, he speaks. “How’re you doing, Tom?”
“Good, Duane. I’m good. How are you?”
“Better, now. Thank you for this. How much we owe you?”
Tom shakes his head. “Nothing. Glad to do it.”
We busy ourselves with the food and drink. Teresa manages to get something in front of my father, insists that he eat. We arrange ourselves around the table, parcel out napkins and flatware, parcel out drinks. I pick a seat next to Tom, crack open one of the beers. It’s good, tastes like some kind of pale ale.
“It’s out of Lexington,” Tom says, in answer to my expression. “People figure that since we aren’t growing as much tobacco anymore, we might as well do something with the land. Lots of new breweries cropping up. Some wineries, too, believe it or not.”
Tom and Duane get into a discussion about the local beer scene, which is lost on me, but it’s fun to follow along. I gnaw on the pizza a bit, see that Daddy’s getting some food in him. I come up for air. “How’d your meeting go?”
Tom grins, rolls his eyes. “I guess we’re on track. Nothing that I can’t handle, but it’ll keep me busy.”
“I still can’t believe you’re selling, Tom,” Teresa says.
Tom shrugs, smiles. “Out of my hands, at this point, I guess.”
“Oh, no… I completely understand. Count us as one of your fans, though. We bought from you.”
“Thanks.” He sighs. We all look at each other; there isn’t anything much that we can say. We can all see that it’s still a sore point for him. It probably always would be.
Teresa goes on. “By the way, I… well, I owe you an apology. For that night. At the funeral.”
Tom waves her to silence. “Don’t worry about it. I understand. Not everyone’s best night.”
“Well, yeah… but I was still a bitch.”
“And that was because of me,” I add.
“Well, yeah, of course,” she adds, punching me on the bicep. “But—”
“You don’t owe me an apology, Teresa,” Tom counters, more strongly. Something, some look, passes between them, and I wonder if he’s thinking about her history with his family, with Michael.
Something about the conversation finally bubbles up into my father’s beer-soaked conscious. He clears his throat. “You’re sellin’ the dairy, Tom? That right?”
“Uh… yes, sir. I am.”
“Well, ain’t that a fuckin’ shame, son.”
To my surprise, Tom cracks up. “Couldn’t have said it better myself, JD.”
“So, what’s after this, Tom?” from Duane.
“Oh, you know… the usual. Take a cruise around the world on the QE2… come back, buy a Ferrari, travel around the country for a while, date a few football players.”
Duane chuckles. “Ah… that gets old real quick.” Earning him a strange, sidelong look from Teresa, followed by a grin and an eyeroll.
“Pace yourself,” I add.
Tom smiles, sobers. “Seriously… I don’t know. Just… relax, I think. Figure out where to go from here.” He darts a quick look at me as he says this. Teresa notices, Duane notices. Looks are exchanged.
“Interesting,” Teresa murmurs. “Interesting.”
“Oh!” he adds, remembering something. “I just thought of this this morning. I’m gonna put together a big blowout for the public when I know for sure when we close down. Free everything. Music, games, clowns. Go out with a bang, I guess.”
“Wow,” says Teresa. “That’s… nice, Tom. How soon?”
“Oh, maybe a couple, three weeks. Depends on the lawyers, at this point.”
—
We make a sizable dent in the pizza. And the beer. Soon, we’re done; Teresa bundles up the remains and takes them into the house to store in the refrigerator until we’re done. Duane goes with her; my father is now pretty much asleep in his chair, leaning back, legs stretched out, arms crossed over his chest, snoring slightly.
I accompany Tom out to his truck. “Thanks for coming by,” I say.
“Glad you asked me to. It was fun.”
“Thanks for the pizza and beer.”
“No problem. Glad to do it. Two of my three favorite things about today, I think.”
I grin. “What’s the third?”
He says nothing, grins in return, climbs into his truck, starts it up. We stare at each other.
“So… ” I start.
“So, how late are you guys gonna work?”
“I don’t know. Late afternoon, I guess.”
“Well, when you’re done, why don’t you… just come over to the house? I’ll tell you what that third thing is, if you want.”
Without waiting for my response, he puts the truck in reverse and backs out into the street and is gone.
Posted December 28 2024