The Letter Chapter 1 1 An unusually cool summer afternoon on a quiet street in a California suburb found Alex Morgan sitting in a comfortable soft leather desk chair. His blue gaze wandered toward the window. He got slowly to his feet, stretching to his five eleven height, easing the kink in his neck and back. He strode confidently across the well-worn carpet of his office to the large window, reaching out and putting a hand on the draw string to open the blinds. The sliding of the white blinds across the newly shiny glass pane opened to him the world of the overcast day, the clouds hanging like thick, white soup in the sky. His gentle blue eyes searched that sky. He knew he would not see Julie�s plane from here, but he could imagine it. He stepped back a little from the window and let his gaze stray to the clock on the wall. It�s peaceful ticking punctuated the passing moments. The hands pointed to 4:45 pm. He smiled, but his mouth caught on the expression. Soft sadness glimmered in his eyes and he rested his head on the cool glass of the window pane. His breathing was gentle and exquisite. Elegant silence gently rapped itself about the room. He glanced back at the clock and let his eyes rest on a single photograph of a sunset over a mountain range. As he watched, his white cat sauntered into the room and stood near her master. Her mouth opened in a soft sound that the man only imagined. The cat rubbed against his ankles. She jumped up on the sill and he stroked her head. The cat purred. He smiled. His gaze wandered back to the window. His eyes took in the darkening clouds as they move quickly across the sky. He returned to the desk, leaving the cat sleeping on the window sill. He sat in the chair and gave the papers piled on his desk a cursory glance. He put his right hand through his brown, short hair, shook his head and rubbed at the stubble on his chin. Slowly, and with great care, he picked up the letter that had come in yesterday�s mail. He breathed deeply trying to keep his heart from racing. His chest burned and tightened with uncertainty. He fingered the letter, looked at the sharp outline of his name in printed letters. A long forgotten agony surfaced, taking him by surprise. Even twenty years after the final parting, a simple white envelope lying coolly in his palm could suddenly anger him. He bit back a curse and slid the letter into the middle of the stack of papers on his desk. A light suddenly blinked on the computer screen. He directed his attention to it. His hands deftly caressed the keys, his fingers resting lightly on them, the words easing his discomfort. His eyes lighted and he took his hand and signed Julie�s name to the screen, as if instead of being a collection of numbers she was there with him. He leaned forward and read her words a question resting in his eyes. He questioned the screen with his hands, as if she would answer him. �Sorry, missed plane. I�ll catch next one and see you at home.� Stay safe.� He thought nothing more of it, and smiled a little; she was always a bit late to places; this time she had missed her plane. He couldn�t help it if he thought her ways were cute, sometimes. She would get here. He thought of the white envelope sitting on his desk, he would have to share its contents with her. His mouth tightened and he brought his hands together, his fingers interlocking, as if to comfort each other. He sat back in his chair and sighed, a sign of his agitation, and then quietly, and suddenly, Julie�s soft, deep brown eyes appeared there like gentle pools, and they comforted him. Distracted from his thoughts, he looked up, attracted to a flashing news alert across the screen. His mouth formed a silent �o� and quietly He took his right hand and laid it across the fingers of his left hand, the palm touching the cool gold of his wedding ring. He held it there for a moment, sitting motionless, and suddenly sighed, easing the tension that had just seized him. Silence settled like a haze, the sound of his quiet breathing mingled with that of the computer fan. He blinked, his eyes filling with tears. They dripped quietly down his cheeks. He paused for a moment, looked at the alert again, and then placed his left hand back on the keyboard. �Julie. Come quickly. Have letter you must see. Come quickly; I�m here.� He looked at the screen again and rubbed his eyes. He was suddenly weary, and suddenly on edge. He knew it would be a long wait. 2 Alex sat all morning following the news alerts about the plane crash; the plane his wife had miraculously if accidentally missed. He drummed absently on the desk, his fists clenched, his body tensed, his heart beat rapidly like a caged thing begging release. The hours seemed to pass interminable silence, everything sharpened in intensity, the light on the screen, the trip to the window, his anxious gaze outside. The street loomed emptily, deserted by motorists seeking refuge from the sudden storm that had descended upon them. In the living room, looking out the glass window, he had almost tripped over the cat, who protested in soundless fury and scratched at something. He looked down, repentant, but then not caring, his attention drawn to something, or was it nothing. He walked endlessly about the stairs, she wasn�t here yet, she wouldn�t be here, certainly she would let him know when she was at the airport. The original plan had been for him to meet her there, but now she had no idea when she would get home and he had no choice but to wait. He went back into the office, the TTY was blinking he connected it; it was no use it wasn�t her; it was someone asking if he had read the news about flight 127. Yes, yes, impatiently, where is Julie? She said she would come. She will come. Then there was a message on the screen. �Alex, I�m at the airport; I got a flight from Chicago, now to L.A. Don�t worry about me. Are you ok, Julie? I�m fine. Just relax. I�ll message you when I�m at the airport. Julie, please come. I will. I�m coming. Can�t wait to see you. I have to see you. He sat back in his chair and closed his eyes, his head was starting to ache. The temperature in the house had suddenly changed, he got up and looked at the thermostat, the heater had clicked on, the temperature had dropped below 68. Something rattled the window and he went over to it and looked outside. Thick, angry fog clamped itself over the houses and then one, two, three brilliant flashes exploded, the trees in almost too sharp relief against the black, angry sky. He put his head against the window's cool glass pane, he sighed, his eyes wet, he sniffled and then returned his gaze to the sudden dark calm. Nothing, the world had gone dark. He clenched his hands he walked to his desk. There was another message. I�m here. Rough landing but they said we could come in. Made it just before the storm hit; came in under some thunder clouds; oh, Alex. Now he stood at the front door, the pager in his hand, turning it, almost twisting it, almost dropping it once. He looked out of the glass pane in the door; misting rain now, and then the flash of lightening. He put his hand on the pane; it vibrated under his hand, he looked up and saw the sky over the house open up and water cascaded down in sheets, a gust of wind slammed a sheet of water against the poor defenseless roses and the window. He looked at the pager. I�m ten minutes away. I found a cab. He opened the door, he didn�t care about the rain, he could get wet, dripping wet. He paced the wet wooden stairs to the porch. He walked to the gate, holding her umbrella, he paced back to the stairs, the win lessened and the rain came down in a steady wash now, he held the umbrella over himself and saw something from the corner of one eye, it was a yellow car; he went and stood by the fence, the yellow car pulled into the driveway; the sky had mercy on them. He opened the gate and hurried to her, she stepped out of the car, her hands full of soft, wet luggage. He took them silently and crossed the grass, his feet squishing through the mud and water. He climbed the wooden porch and wiped his feet, opening the door and depositing the heavy bags in the hall way, eager to return to his wife�s side. He slipped on the wet stairs, catching himself on the rail, hurrying across the grass to stand beside her. Julie signed her receipt and put her credit card back in her purse. The cab was hardly out of sight when they turned to each other in the wet and cold storm. He clasped her to him, feeling her heartbeat, her involuntary tears. He gently pulled away from her, slipped his fingers into hers, led her across the grass and up the stairs. He led her through the door, and shut it, helped her now out of her oversized jacket, put the umbrella in a corner. She stood next to him, looking at the tiled floor, letting her eyes go to the beige carpet and the landscapes on the wall. Everything seemed exaggerated, new, pure, lovely. He moved to her side, led her down the hall to the bedroom, sat down on their bed, eased her down beside him. He could feel her shivering; she was so cold. He took her in his arms, his body warm, alive, she fitted comfortably here. Her tenseness slowly lessened as she once again felt his familiar touch. She put her head on his shoulder. He gently stroked her hair, his fingers tracing through the wet, damp strands. He could be easier now, she was hear, and his hand slipped into hers, cool and supporting, their hands resting on her knee; no one seemed in a hurry to move, only content here; content to do nothing, content to say nothing. Why should they say anything; anything at all? Julie�s existence for the last hours had been a whirling cacophony of babbling voices, confusion, long, snaking lines that seemed to go nowhere, security personnel, flashing headlines, plane delays, and the fretful impatient cries of tired children and perhaps the curses of their parents; all a nightmare Julie hoped never to repeat. It was a relief to finally be sitting here in the silence and now Julie lifted her head and caught his gaze, holding it, searching for something there, and finding a measure of peace that had been lacking for the last eight hours. It was enough to overwhelm her and now she was weary of all of it. The trip had gone well till this morning. Somehow, her alarm had failed to ring�perhaps she had failed to set it and this simple oversight had changed her life---and she had missed her plane, waking much too late to even try and catch it. There was, she thought, not knowing of her impending discovery, only one choice left to her, and that was to simply find another plane home. She reached the airport and discovered that all was pandemonium. The flashing kiosk said flight 127 was delayed. But then there was madness. Flight 127 had crashed into the ocean just after takeoff. Presenting her ticket to the frantic agent, she had found herself on a plane headed here. Now, here, in the quiet house, back in familiar territory, sitting with him, she could begin to unwind, to wonder what stroke of luck had made her miss that plane and why she was still sitting here on the lavender comforter with the oak nightstand and the brass clock and all the familiar things that made up her world. Even now, sitting here, watching his face, watching the changing expressions in his eyes, something nagged at her, and she remembered that he had written something back to her. She could imagine while she was sitting at the airport waiting for her thrice delayed flight that a simple message had scrolled across her screen. She could imagine him sitting there with his hands resting on the keys, typing something; something that had registered in her brain; in the babble of voices, in the gripping sadness, something he had seemed upset about even in the maelstrom of that day. Something about�but he was with her and his hands were inviting her to relax and her eyes were closing, and her head was on his chest and she forgot about it. 3 She thought she felt him stir beside her. Was it a dream or had he cried out in his sleep? He lay curled up as if he were a content child secure in this place. Did his hand smooth her hair away from her forehead? Now as she emerged from sleep she felt his head on her breast, she heard his breathing; it was calm, it was peaceful. But something else had wakened her; it wasn�t him; it wasn�t his cry in the night; no he was at peace here, she loved his eyes and now they were calm and his hands were gently relaxed on the coverlet; it wasn�t him. It was a shrill sound piercing through her brain, disturbing her tranquility, something she had achieved only after a few hours of being with him and pushing away the fears of what could have been. She turned on her side, stretching a little, her feet encountering the soft cotton threads of the sheets, and resting against his ankle. She felt the weight of his head as she sat up slightly. His fingers were on her knee, the tickly stubble of his beard against her naked skin, warm, tingling, inviting caress. She snuggled closer to his warmth; something stirred him. He groaned softly, waking slowly, her breast and her hair tickling him. He turned his head, his eyes opened slowly, he brought a hand to them, wiped the sleep out of them. Her hand found its way into his. She turned her head and looked at the small alarm on the oak nightstand, the dial luminous in the dark, a flashing light lit up three numbers 4:45 AM. She curled back into his arms; it was too early for the insistent ring of that phone, who would be calling at this hour anyway. His hand came quietly to her breast, his fingers lay with feather lightness on her skin. She said nothing. He let his hand lie there with no movement and then he hugged her as if perhaps he wouldn�t let her go. As she moved closer and he found her willing lips the shrill phone pierced the moment. She tensed slightly in his arms; he felt her pull away, looked at her quizzically. She pulled her hand out of his, put her hand to her head, her thumb to her ear, her index finger to her mouth; he looked away, disappointed. Her heart dropped; the call wasn�t so important was it? It was probably a wrong number, anyway. She turned away from him, put her hand out, pushed the offending thing away, touched the button to silence the ringer. She sought his gaze with her eyes, held it, he turned to embrace her, his lips warm and wet, holding her, his fingers gently touching and bringing her to him. She surrendered to his gentle persistence and the sound that had broken into her peace no longer mattered. 4 �I missed the plane.� It was a litany Julie kept repeating to him as they sat in their breakfast nook. They liked sharing breakfast together. It was what they did before embarking upon their hectic days. But today wasn�t going to be hectic. She was still too tired. They were quiet, he slid the coffee carafe to her, she poured it, the smell wafted it�s way to them on the cool breeze. The blinds were open, he liked sunshine in the morning and today was a sunny day. The storm that had interfered with the spring weather had passed over night, leaving the world fresh, clean, green. Nature could be so ruthless, sometimes. As if to protect against the cruelty of God�s design, she took the coffee in to her hand, the cup was warm and she drank deeply of it. She took no movement for granted today. She put the cup down, sat back in her chair, caught his eyes again. �Yes� he signed back to her, �yes.� It was like a litany, like a prayer �I missed the plane� �Yes.� Still stunned, remembering 24 hours ago she would have been sitting there on that plane this time yesterday. Someone wasn�t sitting in their little breakfast corner looking into the eyes of their beloved..�I missed the plane� �yes. Yes.� And then the sound came again, the sound that had wakened her from her light sleep, the sound she had ignored early in the morning, had pushed away and favored her husband over the cruel ruthless ring of the telephone. This time she couldn�t ignore it. She signed telephone and this time he did not move to stop her. Instead he got up and disappeared into the office while she walked into the hall. He fumbled through the papers on the desk, the manila envelopes, the junk mail, the magazines. He knew right where it was, why did he keep stalling? But then he decided he couldn�t stall anymore. He had kept her from her phone call, he had brought her to him, and now, well, now it was morning and he would have to show her the letter. He bit his lip and picked up the envelope, and settled down to reread it. 5 Yesterday, Alex had stepped out into the mid-summer-morning. He liked the morning. The plants were pregnant with blooming, buds and small flowers peaking their tentative heads out of the center of small leaves and wafting their fragrance on a breeze that was gentle and already warm. He made his way along the side of their house to the trellis covered with roses, passing through to the backyard and observed the red-breasted robins nesting in the eaves. He sat down on a wrought-iron bench, his hands on his knees, and calmly watched as a mother bird moved her tongue along her baby, grooming it. He briefly shifted his gaze to their lawn, it was in need of grooming, too, he would have to do that later on today; get the edger out and cut away at the grass that tried to grow over the flagstone path that led back to the fence. Something disturbed the birds, perhaps it was the rasping sound of a crow, unseen by him, detected only by the birds. They flew away, retreating somewhere his eyes could not follow. He got up and made his way back to the front of the house, observing his neighbors. The Andersons, they had just moved into the single-story, blue house with the yellow trim and the newly painted wrought-iron lattice work next door and they liked him. Julie had brought cake to them and invited them to their house. Now their two girls, Jackie, 5, and Andr�a, 7, came running to the fence and waved hello. He acknowledged them with a hand, waved for them to come into the yard. No, the older girl formed a sign, no, they had to go, and then the mother, frantic and rushing, dressed in blue and white appeared around the corner, gesturing for them to follow her. They scurried away, the man smiled and chuckled a little. He stood by the fence, his eyes drifted across the quiet, residential street, someone�s sprinkler had come on, he could see the mist rising from the lawn, the man across the street appeared wearing a t-shirt and shorts, holding the hand of a small child. They turned and made their way east. In the distance, he saw the mail truck. The mail carrier today was a woman, not their usual carrier, the one who looked as if he were constantly eating lemons. James was not here today, he could see the woman carrying her saddle bag, delivering the weekly shoppers and the glossy magazines to each house. He leaned casually against the wrought-iron rungs of his fence, watching a blue and white ice-cream truck pass in front of the houses. There were no children today; it was already 11:00 and the sun climbed straight up into the sky. Far away, he saw a small cloud, one that blotted out the sun only slightly, but it seemed to move away, and he turned his attention to the mail carrier who was approaching his driveway. She smiled and said something, he waved to her and she turned awkwardly away, pulling out several large envelopes, a glossy magazine, probably something Julie had ordered, something to do with crafts or cooking or something. The papers curled into the mailbox snuggly. The lady finishing her job turned back to him, he smiled, trying to make her more comfortable, but she seemed lost in her world or determined to ignore him; he suspected it was the latter, it was this way with hearing people, sometimes. As the woman walked down the sloping lawn, he turned back to the house and climbed the stairs stopping to watch her walk away to the Anderson�s house. He put his hand in the mailbox, pulling out the sizable stack of junk mail. He rifled through it, the grainy texture of the shopper and the smooth whiteness of the envelope, with the straight printed letters; some bills, a credit card statement, then his fingers happened upon the small, white envelope that seemed incongruous in the stack of impersonal mail. He stood separating the papers, fanning them out so he could see the addresses and held the white one in his hand. His mouth tightened and his eyes widened; his heart skipped several beats, he inhaled noisily, he couldn�t help but feel a little dizzy and a little sick, looking at the name on the letter. Sandy Krause. Even now, her name could send a steel-thin sharp dagger into his heart and cause a kind of pain that coursed subtly through one�s body. Sandy Krause, the woman he had known long ago, who had almost driven him to drink too much at times, a memory he tried to drown in a sea of grapes. His fingers felt numb, cold, even in the warming day they were cool and clammy. He turned it again and saw it, but didn�t see it. He didn�t want to see it, but then he clenched his teeth pulling his shoulders in to a posture of defiance. He turned and went back into the house. He sorted through the pile, left the magazine for Julie and tossed the junk mail in the recycle bin that he would take out and set on the street, soon. The letter, he held and briefly contemplated tossing it, too, but sense got the better of him. Good God he was a grown man, he could at least read the letter couldn�t he? Even if he didn�t want to read it, why wouldn�t he? What could Sandy Krause say twenty years after their last brief, violent argument. The fuss she had put up over Julie had come squarely on the heels of his decision to end their sometimes stormy and violent relationship. �It�s all finished,� he had signed to her emphatically, �no more. Go!� She swept down the stairs and almost tripped on a sprinkler head, humiliated, and then paused at the sidewalk to turn and cast a molten look in his direction. The gate slammed with stunning finality and now he stood there, anger spilling out of his eyes. He walked down the steps, kicked at the wood chips in the planter, sitting wearily down on the wall, strength leaving him. Holding the white envelope in his hand suddenly brought all that back as if it were a rushing river and now he went into the office and looked at the picture on the wall, the sun sliding down the curving sky, but it was no use. The peace and the quiet existence had been compromised. He deliberately walked to his desk and closing his eyes slid the letter between two circulars he had to read for his work. It would wait; it would all just have to wait. Suddenly, hiding the letter beneath the papers, he sat down and put his hands over his face. He wanted Julie. 5 Alex responded to a familiar, insistent yet gentle touch on his left shoulder. He looked away from the paper in his hands only to see the white, tear-stained face of his wife. Tear tracks made their way down her cheeks, running through the light makeup. His heart skipped a beat; oh God not another horrible thing; not another one! Wasn�t it enough that his wife had missed a plane that had not made its final destination? What could it be this time? He eased her into his vacated chair, and stood over her, his face caught in an expression of worry. She looked up at him, suddenly composed, her eyes stone cold; he read anguish in it; he kept his eyes on her face, but she said nothing. Suddenly, smoothly, as if in control of all her faculties she leaned forward and reached into the little niche beside the monitor, taking a pen out of his basket. She drew paper toward her, her hand slightly unsteady on the line. She took a deep breath as if she would speak some awful pronouncement, as if steeling herself against some horrible discovery. only she would write this one. She said the words out loud, perhaps more to assure herself she had actually said them. He followed her hand on the paper. She handed it to him and he read it. His eyes widened, too. Julie got up from the desk chair and took Alex�s hand. She led him out of the room; this was no place for comfort; she walked into the living room, the beige couch was neat and clean and they sat down, clinging to each other. The note still lay in Alex�s cool palm and now she reached for it, gently sliding it from between his fingers. She turned it toward her and read it again; as if perhaps reading it would change something. Sandy Krause was on flight 127. She let the note fall between them, Alex took it and read it again, fidgeting with it, the sound of its crumpling ominous in the room. He let the note fall onto his knee, his eyes wandered across the walls painted white, their plainness somehow comforting today in the cool, early morning. Already he could see the sun peeking its way through the greenery outside; soon, this side of the house would catch the full blast of the sun. He brought his gaze back to his wife who still sat quietly, her gaze following his. Suddenly he turned his eyes, looked at her fully and she couldn�t escape the burning intensity she had come to recognize over the course of their sixteen year marriage. She moved her hand to him. �What is it?� He got to his feet, standing and looking down at her still pale face, her natural color slowly returning. He brushed his hand along her cheek as if he would erase the tear stains, then pushed a loose tendril of her curly hair back behind her ear. He showed her his hand, moved his fingers in the �wait� sign and turned and left her. She sat with her hands folded in her lap, the silence fragile yet kind on this unhappy morning. Her composure slowly returned and she looked up, he stood in front of her holding the white envelope, the envelope she had exposed when she pulled a sheet of white paper off his desk to write the news that had come on the telephone. She sat back, holding the envelope in both hands, pulling out the slender sheets, letting them fall onto her lap. She organized them, the writing vaguely familiar; writing she had seen before. Alex, I hope you won�t mind me writing after so many years of not seeing you. The silence has been best and life has been good. Word reaches hear sometimes of you and I know you are happy. You made the best choice, knowing my adventurous spirit and knowing what you wanted. She could give you what I never could, and she has done well. We have not contacted each other; I was harsh, perhaps leaving that last time in a hurry, unrepentant and angry. I do not know why I could not see the truth; the truth you so wisely chose for both of us. Our parting was the catalyst perhaps; the catalyst for my trip here to this remote town of Alaska, helping the fisher crews and surviving the bleak cold winters. I am coming out to take a look at some equipment in your area and I find myself wanting to see you; if only to say hello and to see Julie. I want to apologize. I hope to drop by and see you if you agree. I wood not want to do anything to jeopardize your happiness.� Julie looked up. Jeopardize his happiness? Like twenty years mattered. Clearly he had made his choice. �I hope Julie can forgive me for my harsh behavior. I was angry with her for taking you from me, though I know that you could make your own choices you hardly needed me to help. Make his own choices? How could he choose between her and the vindictive woman now writing this letter? An angry adder, that�s what Sandy had been; a seething, angry, jealous cockatrice. What was all this soupy sorry stuff now twenty years after leaving Alex in a house with a decision he had comfortably made. Alex hadn�t wasted all his years being angry and certainly Julie hadn�t; it was only now when she saw the words on the page� And then she thought of flight 127 and blinked. 6 She couldn�t be angry with Sandy Krause. Two women in Alex�s life had been slated for one flight; one had made it and one hadn�t. Suddenly, she looked at Alex sitting next to her, his hands on his knees, his face suddenly calm as if the agony of the letter had retreated, giving him respite. She moved quietly closer to him, laid her hand on his left one; the bite of the ring on his finger was a solid reminder of sixteen years of commitment he had made to her. He made room for her, and pulled her near to him; she laid her head on his shoulder. Comfortable, cuddled close, life flowing between them, he put his hand on her knee, her head comfortable here, he looked out of the window, and then he looked back at her, his eyes rested on her calming features, the luster of her eyes stirring him, assuring him he had made the right choice. Her fingers linked with his, a callus from working on their heater a few days earlier gently pressed into her hand. He patted her hand gently, laid his cheek on hers, tasted her tears; tears that had dried. Suddenly he wanted her; he wanted to hold her like this; she could sense the change in his mood; it seemed absurd this sudden desire for physical intimacy in the midst of death, but it didn�t seem to matter for a moment, not when he signaled her and moved his hands in their familiar ritual and then carried her out of the room.
Copyright © 2004 Shelley J Alongi |