The Letter

“Are you going to open it?”

Henri ignored her wife, continuing to marvel over the mysterious arrival.

“It couldn’t have been from someone local. They would have known Lucy’s been gone- heck, the building itself has been gone for five years.”

Henri looked up from the unstamped 3x5 envelope addressed from Berlin, Germany to Lucy Thorne, unit #3 of the building that once stood in her dream house’s location. That tornado had been a godsend. It was horrific, of course. But it was undeniably the perfect opportunity for the young architect-- the previous owner of the second floor unit just below Lucy—and her development partner, now wife, to buy the seven plots of land were left devastatingly vacant by the level 4 tornado that touched down on their block five years ago. It was that tragedy that gave the young ambitious couple the opportunity of a life time.

“But how did a letter from Berlin make it here without any postage? There’s no post mark. And the mail man wouldn’t have left a letter under the door mat. It just doesn’t make sense.”

“Well, if you open it, maybe the clues are inside,” Bernadette states with exasperation and irritation at herself for handing the envelop over to Henri rather than opening it herself.

“Henri!” Henri jolted at her harshly spoken name but still marvels and turns the envelope over pondering the meaning of the list of names and places on the back. Before she can give it much thought, she drawls slowly, “Hm, should we try to track Lucy down? I probably still have old condo association records somewhere. I’m sure her email would still be active.”

“No. No, I do not think you should track her down. Not without seeing if it’s worth the effort.”

Henri sighs, then relents and carefully slides the blade of her pocketknife through the flap of the envelope and frees the contents. Two small photographs fall to the floor, which Bern has quickly swooped in to get while Henri cautiously and carefully opens the pages.

“Hm” Henri hums.

Henri’s an architect. Form and function can occupy her thoughts for hours on end, so she’s relieved to notice Bernadette, for the moment, is occupied with the photos so she can inspect the ephemera.

The envelope is clearly handmade to fit the contents. The precision of the construction suggests either the sender has a template or is meticulous by nature. The two sheets of lavender tinted paper are hand crafted and folded perfectly in half, the closing, “Love, Elise” in elegant script was the first glimpse of the written content.

Curiosity for the photos evidently sated, Bern stepped directly in front of Henri and reached out to grab the pages while asking, “What does it say?!”

Before Bern can grab control, she watched Henri turn and walk away, disappearing into their house.

Henri reads:

“Human communication involves an exaggerated amount of time”

-Graham Greene, Travels with my aunt.

14 April 2020

Berlin, My apartment

Dearest Lucy,

I love this idea! It’s like a message in a bottle, but over dry land. I already have an idea about who I’ll hand it over to for the first leg of its journey.

I want to fill these pages with big feelings, big ideas, profound revelations worthy the effort to reach you. But you know me. It is not easy to accept that my words, my vulnerabilities may never reach you. It hurts my feelings to imagine these pages ending up unceremoniously forgotten at the bottom of someone’s book bag amongst the detritus of their harried life. Smudged with a half-eaten candy bar and dumped in the bin without a second thought. I already resent the free spirited second year university student named Florence but goes by Ren because Flo always led to euphemistic references to menstruation when she was in her early teens. Ren-probably an American (no offence) studying in Scottland- enthusiastically agreed to participate in the relay but forgot when she decided not to go home for summer holiday. I hate Ren. I hate you, Ren!

With my therapist’s help, I am trying to let go. Therefore, I forgive you Ren.

Anyway. The curiosity about whether or not our little experiment will work out weights my fears that some busy body will read this instead of you. I just hope that the busy body is not you Aaron…I trusted you with the first leg of this letter’s journey! At least have the decency, Arron, to reseal the envelope and continue it on its way.

Henri momentarily forgets that she has an audience and lapses to silently read a few lines on.

Bern takes another grab at the pages when she realizes what has happened, but Henri deftly evades the attempted coup, holding the pages just out of Bern’s reach while once again inspecting the envelope.

Aaron, Hamburg, 20 April 2020

Kim, San Diego 5/5/22

Laurie Santa Cruz Jan 4, 22

[illegible] Sept 21, 2022

Michael, Jackson 05/15/2023

Turner—Salt Lake 05/20/23

MGR-Chicago 10/31/2024

The names, cities, and dates in different script and ink makes sense now. Henri’s mind wanders to wonder who these people are, how they know each other, what they said to the next person in the relay to result in the letter arriving here, yesterday. Henri marveled that really it made it at all. She knew, like Michael in Jackson (Mississippi or Wyoming?) that if she didn’t hand off the letter immediately it would likely have met the fate Elise feared.

Henri paused, “Ooooh. We should stop reading and try to find Lucy.”

Bern does not want to see the look on Henri’s face, all earnest and sincere. She does not want to be manipulated into experiencing this letter as anything but an adventure meant for them. Decision made, she deliberately looks out the window and urges, “Just read a little bit more.” She can feel the tense energy in the room as Henri weighs the ethical implications of reading a letter meant for someone else but relents.

Last night, about 1:46a I was cursing the fact that my magnesium and melatonin weren’t working for the first time in years.

Toss- Why are my sleep tricks not working?

Turn-Why can’t I sleep?

Toss- I have a presentation at the conference tomorrow and need to be rested!

Turn-and plus, there will likely be a facetime call with Oda to reward me after.

Toss- Oda. Oh. Right. Not my sleep tricks. My Melatonin. My Magnesium. Not failing me.

More likely my brain of mine is in overdrive because I just told someone for the 1st time in 15 years that I find them breathtakingly beautiful. I told her about the troubles in my relationship, which also amounts to saying it out loud for the 1st time.

And that was it. I was asleep immediately.

And yes, Lucy, Astrid and I are divorcing. If and when you get this letter, I will hopefully have already shared this news. I can’t quite tell you yet. About Astid or Oda.

“Bern, we really shouldn’t be reading this.”

Bernadette was tucked up on the couch. Knees to her chest, elbow planted on the armrest, chin firmly nested in palm, and petulance clearly painted on her face.

“Don’t look at me like that.” Henri admonished. “These are real people. Would you want this read by strangers if I had sent a letter about you?”

Bernadette’s spine stiffened. “About me?!”

“No.” Henri clarified, “I don’t mean I’m secretly falling in love with someone else and preparing to divorce you,” she silently, mentally, finished that sentence with an “idiot.” “I just mean if I’d shared insecurities about our relationship with, say…. Alice.”

“But the letter is, what, five years old? It’s all ancient history by now. This Elise chap is happily divorced and shacking up with- Olga? Olna? Whatever.  Anyway. They are happily together and we are the intimate strangers that get to celebrate in their odyssey.”

Henri is skeptical, but she is curious about the remaining page and a half.

“Even if we do find Lucy and hand off the letter,” Bern argues, “we obviously opened the envelope so whether we finish reading or not, she’ll assume we did. Might as well be guilty of the crime we’re accused of.”

Bern lifts her eyebrows in hope and encouragement, holds her breath and gushes out a sign of relief when Henri relents, “Okay. It’s not like we’ll ever meet Elise, Oda, or Astrid. There is nothing personal revealed about Lucy so the biggest damage is already done.”

Henri scans ahead on the page and freezes.

“What’s wrong? Henri?”

Henri peers up at Bernadette with tension in her eyes jaw dropped and a slight sheen of sweat along her hairline.

“What!?” Bern implores.

“She has photos.”

“Photos?” Bernadette repeats, confused. She remembered the photos that fell out of the envelope and digs around her pockets to retrieve them. They are photos of Lucy and someone she presumes to be Elise. Their arms are over each other’s shoulders, kitted up in backpacking gear with stunning backgrounds- one in the mountains and one near a forest stream. “What about the photos?” Confusion deepening due to the incongruous reaction of Henri based on the images captured.

“Not those.”

Silence.

“Lucy has photos of us. Loading the car. That night”

Bern’s eyebrows are deeply furrowed with a frown to match and snatches the letter from Henri. Quickly scanning the words to find what Henri is talking about.

Without a word she gets up, walks to the kitchen. The tic-tic-tic---fwOOOMP of the gas stove turning on confirms for Henri that Bern intends to set the letter aflame.

“What the fuck?” Bern states, flaming letter pinched in tongs, large frying pan under like an oversized ashtray while she walks to open windows.

Henri is still stunned. Frozen on the couch.

“It’s been over five years. If the photos were evidence, the police would have been here to question us by now.” Bern rationalized for herself and reassured Henri.

“But he’s dead, and obviously Lucy suspects us. Why else would she have photos of us packing the car at 3am?”

“She would only have seen us with boxes. No body was found and because of the tornado he’s already officially been declared presumed dead. We’re fine. No one suspects foul play. No one else knows he was the only owner who refused to sell. And because of the timing of the tornado, no one suspects anything. Your first-floor neighbor was a curmudgeonly old man. No friends. Estranged family. He needed to go. The universe agreed when it sent the tornado through to cover your tracks. And now, the universe has delivered the letter to us rather than kick up memories for Lucy. The universe is further tidying up any evidence. The whole thing is neatly tied up in a bow.

Bern heads back into the kitchen and Henri hears the hiss of water extinguishing the hot ashes. Henri is calm until startled by “Knock Knock” is called from the screen door. Henri jerks her head to see a young androgynous person peering in through the screen, and when they spot her, apologize in a smooth melodic voice, “Sorry to disturb you, but I left an envelope under your doormat yesterday. I knew despite the street address being correct, this wasn’t really the right place. I thought I could retrieve it without you being any the wiser, but… it’s gone? It was addressed to Lucy Thorne? I think I found her online and can deliver it to the correct address?” Each sentence came out more as a question than statement which had trepidation building up again in Henri. She makes panicked eye contact with Bern, still in the kitchen and out of sight of the person on the porch. Although she didn’t quite know what the nod of Bern’s head meant, she was able to pull herself together and turned back to the stranger on their porch.

When she reached the door, she replied, “Envelope? What envelope?” and subtly pushes the person back by stepping out through the door and into their space on the mat.

“It was under there.” The stranger points. “I looked before knocking, but it’s gone. I know it was there.”

Bernadette materializes, leaning casually against the door jam, still inside the house, leisurely drying her hands on a kitchen towel. Henri is looking back over her shoulder and asks, “Do you know anything about a letter under the mat, love?”

Without a beat, Bern responds, “Yeah, found it there this morning and walked it over to the post office to return to sender. No one here by that name, and weird that it listed a unit number when this is obviously a single-family home.”

The stranger is instantly crestfallen, shoulders slump and eyes brim with tears. Henri’s do to, but for very different reasons.

“Look….”

“Magnus.”

“Magnus. Look Magnus, just think, the letter will get back to the sender and,” Bernadette paused to make sure she said nothing that would reveal she took any more notice beyond wrong address, and continued after an almost undetectable halt, “rerouted in no time.”

“I feel awful that I had the letter for nearly a year! I finally rallied yesterday, finally threw off this burden, but couldn’t sleep last night knowing the name on the envelope did not match the names on the mailbox. Even if no one else knows it, I’m a liar if I think I did my job leaving the letter here under your doormat.”

As Magnus grew more distraught, Henri felt more at ease. She felt more certain Magnus was not suspicious of where the missing letter went. They were no Sherlock with the superhuman ability to notice the smell of smoke and know the exact type of paper that gave off the distinct scent and connect it to the subtle twitch in Bern’s eye or random flake of ash residue that she missed while washing the letter down the kitchen drain.

Magnus looked imploringly at Henri.

 “Magnus. I’m Henrietta.” She smiles warmly and ushers them towards the Adirondak chairs with a hand on Magnus’ lower back and insists, “Why don’t you join us for a cup of coffee,” with friendliness not reflected in the pointed look she gives over her shoulder, “Bernadette was just putting on a pot.” As they sit Henri once again smiles at Magnus and offers, “I can help you snuff out this silly guilt you carry over the errant errand. First, tell me what you know about the letter?”