Give me a ticket for an aeroplane; I ain't got time to take a fast train. Oh, the lonely days are gone, I'm goin' home. My baby just wrote me a letter.
Not. So. Much.
What is it about a letter, a note? Because you can hold it in your hands, because s/he held it in her/his hands, you struggle mightily not to vest it with magickal properties. But there you are. You struggle, and you fail.
It has been sitting there, The Note. Totem-like. Irradiated with mojo-sapping WAW-energy. Faintly glowing, humming, like the flying saucer in some 1950s aliens-from-outer-space epic.
I was vexed that she left it as she moved out, vexed to the point of Angry, Angry to the point of ENRAGED:
How Dare She?!!!
Getting in the Last Word like that! And after -- after! -- the Batsh*t-Crazy-a-Thon!
What nerve!
Ohhhhhhh, I see! I'm supposed to read this, but when it was her turn, her chance to read some words, she ignored them for daysweeksmonths and then they disappeared! But noooooo! Sheeeeeeee gets to leave a Note! Well Excuuuuuuuuuse Meeee! Pfaw!
You see, I'd written her a Letter on the business trip that ended with my Triumphal Return to the familial manse, the Kissing Of The Kids, the Distributing Of The "Whatchabringmedaddy?" Gifts, and....wha'? huh?...the Offering Of The Cheek? The Mandatory Return Peck? The "Good Trip?" inquiry-that-isn't-really-an-inquiry?
And, four hours later, with the lone B-Eleventeen, time-over-target, adjust for wind drift and velocity.
Bomb's Away.
I'd written her a Letter that ended up inside a Valentine's Day card, a Letter that asked her to MC, that told her I knew it wasn't working, that I wasn't working, but that I thought it could, that I was committed to Making It Work. You see, my therapy was beginning to pay off, and we'd Skyped, the kids and I, during that trip, me in the daylight and they in the night, and during those Skypes I could "see" that Something Was Off, that the Milk of Human Kindness was a day or so past its expiration date.
Well, well, well. If only I'd known. WAW'd decided, you see. She'd done her Harry S. Truman, just 2 weeks before. So when I was stupidly Skyping home with my stupid "I love you's" and "how are you's" and "you look great you's", she was Already Divorced.
So there we are, fellow humans:
Me with that sleepy travel funk wafting thither and yon, redolent of Major Airline Economy Class, JFK, and the Toddler Stank of Little Lord Fauntleroy from 12-E, He Whose Feet Never Stopped Kicking even while he was projectile-vomiting onto my head and neck.
And Herself, WAW, who has Lost That Loving Feeling and stands, legs akimbo and arms crossed, with That Look upon her.
And it is High Noon, or High Ten P-Em at any rate, mere hours remaining before St. Valentine's Day.
And what a day it will prove to be; me playing the role of Bugs Morans' boys at the CMC Cartage Co., WAW taking the part of Alfonse Hisself.
There I stand, in the kitchen, one side of the serving counter with WAW on t'other, and I say something -- something trivial, now long forgotten -- but Something in that something obviously contains the Go Code for WAW's mission. Purity of Essence. Plan R.
I excuse myself to the Gentleman's Chamber of Solitude (AKA, the bathroom, the WC, the loo) for a bit of reading. When I re-emerge, WAW is over the target. She drops The Bomb.
Know what's funny? I'm smiling at the time. Of course I am. I'm one of Smiley's persons. What is it Bogart says in "Casablanca?" Oh yeah -- "The wild finish. A guy standing on a station platform in the rain with a comical look on his face because his insides have been kicked out."
I float there, mid-air, Wile E. Coyote-like, knowing there's no there there below me but hoping that if I don't notice it then I won't fall, bweeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhh - Boom!
So there it is, sports fans. The Note.
What to do with it? I've thought about just tossing it in the trash and then, bwah-ha-ha!, telling her so should she ask ("Hmm? Oh, that. Yeah, I tossed it."). Burning it in a ritual sacrifice to the gods of change. Setting it adrift in the sea. Carefully placing it in an envelope, sealing it, time-capsule-like, to be opened in 10 years. Polishing my cordovans with it.
Ah, Smiley's Person, would that you were such a guy. But yer not, are ya? Nope -- I'm busted, you got my number, dead to rights.
So for a while there I just moved it around a bit, pushed it here and there on the desk, set it down over there, no, over here, wait, maybe on that shelf, no, how about in this drawer, oh, perhaps in that box....
Frightened, you see? Frightened that I would find within it something that would make me sympathize, empathize, compassionitize -- and why do I want that? I'm angry -- angry, dammit! -- because she moved out, because the kids are weeping, because of the Batsh*t-Crazy-a-Thon, because and because and because.
And frightened -- I mean let's face it, let's be honest, let's call it what it is -- frightened that there won't be a Ray Of Hope within it. That it won't say, "Come get me." That it won't say, "I'll be waiting." That it will say, "Goodbye and fare-thee-well."
(Oh I'm not that detached. I'm not that uncaring. I'm not that uninterested in a positive -- dreamy positive, not positive-for-me-because-I'm-a-better-person-for-having-DB'd positive -- outcome.)
For 72 hours I hemmed and hawed, hawed and hemmed, kreuz und quer, hin und her, ist das nicht ein Schnitzelbank?
And, finally, a few hours ago, I read it. It didn't take long. WAW's handwriting is large and her words are few. I don't know how to take it, so I'm taking it as a paean. As a farewell. No mind-reading ("oh, but look where she says!"). Well, okay. Mind-reading. But pretending not to mind-read. Pretending to pretend it has no meaning.
----------------------------
Dear Smiley's Person --
I am not eloquent with language the way you are, and my computer is packed so I won't have an opportunity to edit this.
I don't know how this happened, and it really doesn't matter now. We are too far down this dark path to turn around now. I had thought that if we lived separately, we might be able to slowly rebuild our relationship. I understand that you don't want or need that, and I accept it.
If I had looked into the future and seen this ending for us, I wouldn't have believed it. I also would have fought like hell to prevent it. But it seemed to sneak up on us with little warning.
I know you will go on to have a great life and great love. But for me, you were and will always be the one great love of my life.
You may not believe it, but I wish you all the happiness you can handle. I will miss you forever.
/s/ Herself
----------------------------
The Note. A Note. A note.
But a note of what? Sadness? Remorse? Regret? Betrayal? Hope? Acceptance?
Of what, of what, of what?
And does it matter, of what? Of what does it matter, of what?
What does it matter?
She said, "Goodbye."
Goodbye, stranger; it's been nice. Hope you find your paradise. Tried to see your point-of-view, Hope your dreams will all come true.
