It was a horror, albeit a slow, conversational one.

Dear Trevor,

O Carl, I miss you, too. Yours is a face that’s smoked 10,000 cigarettes. You told the same stories of closing deals on suburban split-levels until I wanted to punch you in the mouth. You were unable to make even the simplest decision. And you were the best friend I had since I died.

Carl is still in there, Trevor. Right where I left him. I stayed by him for what must have been many days, trying to get him to come back with me. He simply couldn’t decide what to do. So he did nothing. And now, like Martin, he’s turning back into nothing. Or into compost. His elements are coming unlimbed and unchained.

I know what happened to Martin now, because Carl showed me. It was a horror, albeit a slow, conversational one. The kind of horror that might happen over an afternoon of television and sandwiches. It was just as final and just as eternal.

I’ll tell you more tomorrow, Trevor. I’ll tell you everything.

Dad

I’m back. Carl is not.

Dear Trevor,

I’m back. Carl is not.

Your letters nearly filled my little box at the post office. How I can have been gone so long is a mystery of this place. In the woods, time must stop, because activity nearly does.

I barely made it out of that horror of a place. I failed in getting anyone to return. I saw Julia. I saw what little was left of Martin. I saw others as well. And Carl, my dear Carl. He’s in there still. He likely always will be.

Your letters, Trevor, were a shock to me. I ‘ve wondered–for days, apparently–if I had imagined them all. For a while, I convinced myself that the woods were everything. But somehow, I made it out. And my little cabin is still here and Sung-Hee is still here and Gordon. And your letters.

I’m back. I’ll write you more tomorrow, after I’ve read all your news.

Dad

Count on my return, Trevor.

Dear Trevor,

I’m scribbling this note to you and dropping it off at the post office as Carl and I get ready to head back into the woods.

Carl is tagging after me like a faithful mutt, waiting for me to give him a command. It’s strange. Once I gave him one order of leaving with me today, our relationship has changed. He looks to me for direction. I think it feels natural to him, to not have to think for himself. I understand that. This is not a place that encourages thinking, at least not without great effort.

I expect that I will come back, Trevor. I am nearly certain the woods are not for me, but I need to realize what they are for. They must have a purpose. There must be purpose, mustn’t there? I mean, even this purposeless place must play a role in the long stumble of our souls.

I hope we can somehow find Julia again and bring her back, but I only have the littlest bit of faith that will happen. Between you and me, it’s not my main purpose forgoing back in. If you had seen Julia and heard the chords her voice struck, you would understand what I mean. I don’t think there is any coming back for her.

Martin came to see us off, holding his empty pipe in his hand for comfort, tapping the bowl and probably wishing hard for tobacco. “Post tenebras spero lucem,” he said to us. “After darkness, I hope for light.” I hope for light, too. I hope for something. Something other than what I have now.

Count on my return, Trevor.

Dad

Carl, you’re coming with me. We leave tomorrow.

Dear Trevor,

I told Carl today about Julia. It wasn’t until I received your letter that I realized I hadn’t told anyone. And the thought that perhaps I could get someone to go with me into the woods is a great relief. Assuming anyone in this town will go with me.

Carl was shocked, of course. How could he not be? I’m not certain he believes my story. He kept looking up toward the woods while I was talking. When I got to the part about Julia, he asked the same two questions that have been running through my head:

“How did she get across the chasm? How could you just leave her there?”

I told him I was going back. He said, “She could be dead by now.” I smiled grimly and asked him to come with me. He said nothing for a while. I asked him for an answer. He looked up at me without replying.

Right then I came to a realization. In this little town, the ruling authority is apathy. Nothing is what we do every day. We are deep into that ditch. If Carl had been capable of making a decision, he wouldn’t still be here. I realized right then he was no longer capable, so I took a different approach. I said, “Carl, you’re coming with me. We leave tomorrow.” He looked up at me and nodded. So I guess that settles it.

Now Trevor, about this basketball team you’re on. I want to hear more about it. I reread your recent letters and agree with you on one thing: Mr. Schick sounds like a real jerk. But if I was there with you, I still think I’d let you deal with him on your own. He is your dragon to slay, not mine. Should you stick it out or quit? Your call, my son.

When I was your age, I was no great athlete. I ran track in high school and did OK in that, even if I never loved it. I played a little soccer as well. I remember struggling through sports all during my high school years, wishing I was the boy that quickened schoolgirl hearts when a ball sprung from my instep and rocketed 18 yards past a helpless goalkeeper. But my body would never cooperate with my fantasies.

During my second year in college, I joined an intramural soccer team—men and women and just for fun. I mostly did it to meet girls. But playing then, when I was 19 and out of high school—something happened. My body began to cooperate. The ball went where I wanted it to. I could dribble down the field with my head up. I could see the channels for passing. I knew when to make a break. People noticed. No coaches came calling. But I was good. I was finally good.

And it no longer mattered.

I still remember the day I realized it, when I bobbed my head left, kicked right through two defenders and shot the ball into the back of the goal, feeling relaxed and in control the whole time. I laughed out loud because I realized the cosmic joke of the whole thing. No girls sighed. High school was over already. So much of life is about timing.

Here’s another joke for you. You and I have finally connected. Unfortunately, you’re still alive and I’m dead.

Dad

I heard Julia crying out from the other side of the chasm.

Dear Trevor,

One of the things most frustrating about dying of cancer was how much of my focus was taken up with my own pain. Pain was always yammering for my attention. So when Steffan or Keith would come home from school and want to talk about a girl or a bad grade, I didn’t have much left to give. I’d say, “Hey kiddo, how was your day?” And when one would ask me how mine was, I’d force a smile and say, “Not bad, not bad.” A son of mine would tell me what happened at school and I’d raise and lower my eyebrows and nod my head at the right places.

But they could tell I wasn’t really listening. It was hard to listen to a whisper about a social studies class when my guts were yelling so loud all the time.

That’s how I feel right now. I don’t want to be phony with you and say, “Mmm, basketball…nice. Good job.” I want to really listen. I may have to go back and reread your letters in a few days. Right now, it’s hard for me to focus on anything other than what happened in the woods. The memories are still shouting at me.

Back in the woods, I was sitting next to the motionless form of Martin. I heard Julia crying out from the other side of the chasm. “Julia!” I yelled.

“I heard a voice!” she yelled.

“It’s Hugh,” I said. “What happened to Martin?”

“Help me!” she cried in return. “I’m all alone.”

I repeated my question, but she only cried for help in return. I turned to the body beside me. Martin was still breathing shallowly, with a faint gurgle. I yelled his name right into his ear, but he didn’t respond. I shook him, pulling the moss from his face and torso. No response.

Martin’s skin was pockmarked where the moss had been. The moss had begun taking root. He was host to its parasite. I slapped him hard, knocking spittle from his open mouth. I screamed his name at him, but I may as well have been screaming at a log. I slapped him again. Nothing. I laid him tenderly back on the ground. He settled back into his body-shaped dent.

I stood up and stumbled through the thick moss toward the edge of the chasm. I nearly tripped, which would have sent me falling plunging into the dark. I stopped and stared down toward the roaring river, but the chasm was so deep that I could not see the bottom.

“I’m here,” I called to Julia.

“Help me,” she called back. “I’m alone.”

“How can I reach you?” I asked.

“I’m alone!” she cried.

“How do I get across?”

“I’m alone!”

Trevor, I couldn’t stand to hear those words anymore—the insane repetition. I hated the reminder of my loneliness. I couldn’t stand to remain by that comatose body in the moss. I fled. I left her there. I turned and ran, following my own footprints in the moss, through the woods, back through the darkness toward town.

Enough for today.

Dad

I will lie down here, I thought, just for a moment.

Dear Trevor,

Believe me when I tell you I care about your life. It’s nearly all I’ve cared about since the first time I received a letter from you up here. I would love to come to your basketball game. If I could find it in myself to shed a tear, I would shed them for the times we did not get to play together at any sport or game—basketball, soccer, a simple game of catch, a pillow fight, a race to the mailbox and back. A spitting contest off the deck.

The woods simply overwhelmed me. I am a little better today, a condition which fills me with its own kind of dread, because I know I must go back into the woods.

Will it help if I continue my story for you? Here goes:

I followed Julia and Martin’s trail deeper into the trees until I began to notice a sound. It started as a distant, muffled buzz, but I recognized it even then. It was a river. It had such a steady, solid noise that I thought it might be a waterfall. The sound was a comfort—like running into an old friend in a strange city. A river meant life. Rivers started somewhere and went somewhere. They proceeded, unlike tides and fog and everything else in this world that simply seemed to come and go.

I was desperate for any kind of company, because the woods were the most alone place I have ever been. No animals. No people. Even the tree branches were out of reach. It was a smothering kind of loneliness. I thought maybe I would never see people again. I longed for humans. I would have kissed Sung-Hee on the lips if I had seen her.

The sound of the river was the closest thing to a friend I had. For the first time since I entered the forest, I quickened my step.

In the silence, the sound must have traveled for many miles, because it seemed I walked for days without reaching it. The saturated moss sucked at my feet. I slipped more and more as I went along, each time covering my clothes in green stains. The stains are still there now—green-streaked souvenirs of a trip I’d rather sever from my memory.

I was tired, but not in the way you might get tired from running lines in your basketball practice—yes, I read that letter. I was short of breath, much like I had become late in my cancer, when the air seemed less worth breathing. The moss sucked at my feet from below. The dark, moist air sucked at my mouth, seeming to pull any usable oxygen out of it.

But I went on, stopping briefly at the bottom of a rise in the land. The sound of the river grew louder here. I began to struggle up the rise and determined that when I reached the top, I would lie down and rest. It seemed as I went up, that gravity increased its pull on me. Each lift of a foot became a struggle of determination. I stopped halfway to the top.

“I will lie down here,” I thought, “just for a moment.” I did so, sprawling on the damp moss. I closed my eyes and tried to catch my breath, but the air here was damper than ever. It was like breathing in Jell-o.

Lying there, the side of my head was half sunk into the deep moss. I could hear the squishing, sucking sound through my submerged ear. I could feel a kind of tingly, creeping movement over my wet skin, as if bugs were crawling slowly up from the moss and onto me. I wanted to scream, to jump to my feet, but I was so tired.

I laid there, Trevor, thinking that perhaps I would just breathe in and out one more time and then go to sleep. It had been so long since I’d had a really good sleep. But I dreaded lying their by myself. I wanted to find someone—anyone. I longed to be not alone. I longed even for Martin and Julia’s pathetic company.

It was that longing—or that dread of loneliness—that pushed me to my feet. My face and clothing were wet and green now, like the moss I’d lied in. I struggled mindlessly to the top of the hill and nearly tripped over Martin’s body.

He laid there, his eyes mostly closed, his big chest rising and falling ever so slightly. Moss covered him nearly completely. It grew on his skin, as if he were made of rotting wood. One dripping eye was exposed. His gaping fish mouth sucked the moist air in and out. I screamed.

“Help me!” a voice called in response. It was Julia. I looked around in the dim light. “Help me, please!” she cried again. The sound of rushing water nearly drowned her out. “I heard a voice!” she cried. “Is someone there?”

I could just see her, waving a hand frantically, on the far side of the chasm. I had no idea how I might get to her. I had no desire to stay where I was, next to the moss-choked body beside me.

I need to beg for your patience again, Trevor. I am tired. I need to try to catch my breath again. I’ll write again soon. I’ve told you most of it, anyhow.

Dad

I pushed my way under the big trees.

Dear Trevor,

I still feel like I am catching my breath. Your stack of letters profoundly disturbed me, as I had no idea how long I was gone. Sometimes, in the woods, I thought I had only been there a few hours. Other times, I wondered if I’d ever been anywhere else.

Be patient with me as I explain this to you, Trevor. It’s difficult for me to write. This stubby pencil keeps falling out of my shaking hand. It is strange, communicating with someone who plays basketball, who talks of other humans. It amazes me that there ever were such things. This paper of yours that you send to me. It appears real. I hope it is and I hope you are.

Forgive me, Trevor.

The woods.

The Laughing Gull.

I remember leaving the Laughing Gull a million years ago or five minutes ago to follow Martin and Julia. I had no idea what I hoped to find in the woods, but the knowledge that others were going first eased my anxiety. Just knowing Martin and Julia were in there somewhere made the experience feel less alone.

I found a trail through the brambles and pushed my way under the big trees. Once I got past the brushy edge, the rough trail gave way to mossy ground, which made every step soft and slippery. It was easy to follow Martin’s trail, though. He left size 13 scars on the moss. Next to his marks were the tiny blemishes made by Julia’s shoes.

The woods were dark all the time. Above, the huge trees disappeared up into the fog. I suppose that fog is why the trees are so big. It’s always feeding them. Always growing them to become more and more overwhelming. More imposing.

Growth only happens up above. Down on the ground, the only thing that grows is moss and mildew. The trees are draped in cobwebby moss. Moss on the tree trunks is seaweed-heavy. The ground is soggy with it. Every surface seems covered with some shade of green. It’s a kind of life, I suppose, but a choking kind.

Taken me half a day to write this, it seems.

I walked alone for some time—no idea how long. The air was so heavy in there, it seemed hard to breathe deep enough to reach that satisfying catch in the throat. If I had to do more than follow Julia and Martin’s marks, I would not have managed. Soon, all I could see were trees and moss. The only dim light came from above. The only sound was dripping water and a kind of squishing, wriggling sound that seemed to come from all around. It sounded like a million bug-sized drops of water had come to life. It seemed—

O Lord.

Trevor, I can’t write more today. I feel I’ve told you nothing so far. Tomorrow.

Dad

I’ve seen some horrors, Trevor. And I need to go see them again.

Dear Trevor,

I’m back. I haven’t even ready your letters yet. I just collected them from the post office and thought I had better write you to let you know I’m still alive, or whatever the proper term is. I’m here, at least.

I’ve seen some horrors, Trevor. And I need to go see them again. I’ve seen the fate of my kind. I found Martin. He is there in the deep shade of the woods and he will likely stay there, beneath the moss. I can’t speak of it anymore today.

I’ll tell you more tomorrow. Right now, I need to put my hand on the arm of a chair and feel something solid, or as solid as I can find in this half land.

I need to rest, Trevor, because I need to go back into the woods.

Dad

It’s time for me to cram my ears with wax and get the hell out of here.

Dear Trevor,

Dear Trevor,

I’m sitting here at The Laughing Gull again, trying to get up my courage to go into the woods.

No, courage is not the right word. I’m trying to break through my walls of inactivity. Gordon would call my state The Modern Malaise. “We’re too separated from necessity,” he would say. “We don’t need anything. We don’t go hungry enough. We don’t fight for survival enough. No one’s trying to burn our village or kill our family. We’ve got nothing worth fighting for, worth working for.” I’ve been wallowing in this meaningless existence for so long that I don’t how to step out of it. I’m going to, though.

Do you have these kinds of days? I remember as a kid getting together with a friend and asking the inevitable question: “So what do you wanna do?” And he’d say, “I dunno. What do YOU wanna do?” We’d swap that question back and forth half a day without doing anything. Every option, no matter how stupid, would have been better than sitting there doing nothing. Drawing hand turkeys. Making toast. Trying to break the record for standing on one foot. Sometimes it doesn’t matter so much what you do, but just that you do, right?

Speaking of broken records, I’m starting to sound like one. Or how would I say that in a way that makes sense to you? I’m starting to sound like a parrot. Or a repeating sound bite.

I pretended that the reason I came down here to the Laughing Gull was to ask Sung-Hee precisely which direction Martin and Julia headed when they went into the woods. She told me that in the first 60 seconds. Right past Martin’s cabin and straight through into the shadows. Since then, I’ve been here for what would probably equal many hours in your world, trying to figure out how to get off of my ass, onto my feet and into the trees.

Instead I’ve been sitting here painting a portrait of Sung-Hee with her own awful coffee. If the picture is imperfect, it serves her right. I’ll include the picture with my letter to you. Hopefully it will be a going away present, as I go away into the woods.

Sometimes—today is one of those times—Sung-Hee sings while she cooks. She has a love of awful, old, pop songs and she sings them in her rickety voice with a Chinese accent. “IF-a you want my baw-dee AND-a you think I’m sex-eee, COME on sugar, let-a me knowwww…” She’s like a siren. I don’t mean a police siren, although that’s about how bad she sounds. She’s like an ugly mermaid, wooing me into her crummy restaurant with her warbly voice.

It’s time for me to cram my ears with wax and get the hell out of here.

Hopefully, you won’t hear from me soon.

Dad

They gone. Went into the woods just today.

Dear Trevor,

I’ve been wondering if I hope you make the team. Would it be good for you to feel the joy of being accepted into the tribe of basketball players? Or would it be better for you to experience the pathos of rejection, so that you can empathize with others in their moments of isolation?

Who am I kidding? I hope you make the team. Rejection sucks.

I wandered down to the Laughing Gull this morning for a cup of coffee. Not to drink, but at least to sit over. At least Sung’s Hee’s coffee is warm enough to produce a little steam. I can pretend that it would taste good, as long as I never forget myself and actually drink it.

Business was slow at the gull, so Sung Hee sat next to me at the table. “Have you heard?” she said.

“Heard what?”

“About Martin and that woman.”

“Julia?”

“That her name? They gone. Went into the woods just today. Martin stopped in to say goodbye. He said, ‘You’ll never see me again, This dear lady and I are traveling to the great beyond.’ Then he dragged that woman straight up into the trees.”

I’m writing to you now to let you know I’m going after then. I don’t mean you’ll never hear from me again. I’m going to follow them, though, and see where they go, how they go, whatever. Not that I think Martin knows what he’s doing. But if there were, say, rabid bears in the woods, I’m pretty sure they’d try to eat Martin before they’d eat me.

Wish me luck, as I wish you luck. Whatever that means. I’m doing something, simply because it’s better than doing nothing.

Dad

Lots of people go there and never want to come back.

Dear Trevor,
I don’t know who this Mrs. St. Claire is. I know your mom had a whole bunch of friends from church that I never knew very well. I’m glad for that. Some of them seemed all right.
I never had much use for the whole church thing, as I’ve told you before. It wasn’t that I had anything against it. I just found it boring. And stuffy. Everyone gets in one big room for an hour and a half and acts holy. And Sunday was always the best day for sports. I probably didn’t give it much of a chance, though, much to your mother’s dismay.
My other main problem with church was that as soon as I walked in the door, I felt guilty. It seemed like church was designed to make a man think about his sins and I’d rather forget about mine. What is the point in reminding someone that they don’t measure up? I know I don’t measure up. Stop telling me, for God’s sake.
I always kind of liked the Bible, though. Church seems to work hard to be G-rated, even though it’s all about a Bible that seems more R-rated to me. Because life is R-rated. Both the Bible and life are full of sex and violence. In the Bible, David kills Goliath then cuts off his head. That’s not a scene in a G-rated movie. Then David grows up, falls in love with Bathsheba, who happens to be another guy’s wife, so David has that guy killed. And David was one of God’s favorites.
If God could like David, I wonder if it is in any way possible he could like me. I need to figure that out, Trevor. I need to do something to get out of this place. That means I have two choices: the woods or the boat. I feel like the choice should be clear to me, but it doesn’t feel anything like clear. It feels like mud.
Sung-Hee shared a little gossip with me today. She told me that Martin is thinking of going into the woods and he plans to take Julia with him. “He’s been telling that lady how wonderful the woods are,” said Sung Hee. “He’s been saying that lots of people go there and never want to come back. He’s been saying all sorts of things. He’s a mighty good salesman, that Martin. He almost makes me want to go, too.”
“Why don’t you?” I asked.
“I can’t leave. I got this restaurant to run. Who would make the food if I wasn’t here?”
I thought, who would care if you didn’t?
Dad

It makes me wonder if God ever kills people simply as a joke.

Dear Trevor,

Maybe your mom just wants to get you a dog. I’d like you to have a dog. Maybe your mom senses that you are kind of lonely and that a dog would help. Maybe it’s not about her at all.

By the way, Chairman Mao was the leader of Communist China back in the 60s and 70s. You’ve seen pictures of him wearing a little cap with a red star on the front. And no, I never worked for him.

I drew a picture of Julia. She always looks like she is about to realize something, but never quite does. As if she’s thinking, “I just realized—oh wait. No, never mind. I guess I didn’t.”

I think that Julia waited all her years down on earth for her life to get started. And then, just when it did—just when she got married and became part of a family—she died. It makes me wonder if God ever kills people simply as a joke. I don’t think He does, but there does seem to be evidence that He has a dark sense of humor.

Here’s an example: My father died when I was young—just like you, I guess. He immigrated to the States as a young man, because work in the coal mines back at home had dried up. He worked in mines in Montana, but the work was so dangerous he wanted to stop before it killed him. So he moved to Tacoma and got a job in a gravel quarry, where he was crushed to death in a small landslide. Funny, eh? A real knee slapper.

I had a full life up until I died, but it was only half done. And there were many parts of it that were only half lived. I had a mess of wonderful, noisy children. I loved and was loved by a happy, bossy, beautiful woman. I started a business and had it going in a direction I was beginning to like. And all along this thing was waiting right outside of my peripheral vision. One day, I turned my head a bit to the left and there it was. And six months later, here I was.

I’ve got to get out of here. I need to get on with things again somehow. What should I do, Trevor?

Dad

Why are you asking what I would think about Mom dating?

Dear Trevor,

Why are you asking what I would think about Mom dating? Remember our agreement to be honest with each other?

First of all, no one dates up here, but that doesn’t mean there’s no pettiness, misery, jealousy, gossip, self-doubt or any of the other benefits of dating. There are only three women regularly in our little town. One is Sung-Hee, who is hard to recognize as a woman. She claims she was married and raised children back in your world (she says they all worked for her at her hamburger stand), but she looks more like Chairman Mao than anything resembling a female. As far as I can tell, she has no breasts at all.

On the other hand, Sung-Hee loves juicy gossip. I think she longs for scandal as much as she longs for life itself.

There is also an old woman who lives down at the end of the row of shacks. I’ve never heard anyone call her anything but The Woman At The End. She has white hair down to the middle of her back and wears a dress that looks like it was made of burlap. I’ve never spoken to her. I see her drift in and out of the fog every now and then. She gives me the willies.

Then there’s Julia, who just got here but honestly doesn’t feel all here. Carl says to give her a chance. Maybe she’s still recovering from jet lag, which is what he calls the post-traumatic stress of realizing you’re dead. Martin gloms onto Poor Julia every chance he gets and she seems undecided on whether she likes the attention or not. I’m pretty certain Martin will drop her the next time a group of newcomers arrive.

If I were alone on a desert island with Julia, back on earth, I suppose I would, ehh, do something with her. Date, mate, call it what you will. Here, I just find her another vague annoyance. Like a fly. Not a mosquito trying to suck your blood. Just a fly bouncing its head against the window while you’re trying to get to sleep.

I guess you can count the ship captain as a woman as well, or as a living nightmare. I can’t think about her.

But I do want to know about your mom. Is she seeing someone? Tell me.

Dad

That poor asparagus would be a soggy, flavorless mess.

Dear Trevor,

It’s funny, because you don’t want to go out for dinner with just your mom, while I would cut off my right arm for the chance.

I know what you mean about how restaurant food can’t compare to your mom’s home cooking. She was always an astonishingly good cook, as long as you could keep her away from making casseroles.

When it came to basic food, roast beef, fried chicken, biscuits, apple pie—no one could come close to your mom. A chicken dinner on a Friday night, maybe with baking powder biscuits and a steamed vegetable. I would burn down Sung-Hee’s shack for a meal like that.

I loved to watch your mom cook. She was a master of efficiency, which she probably learned by growing up on the farm. Farm girls have a natural desire to avoid work, because they do so damn much of it.

Here’s how I remember it: First, Evelyn would turn on the oven. It didn’t matter what it was, she cooked every single thing that ever went in that oven at 350 degrees. Then she’d fill a bowl half full of flower, with a good dose of salt and pepper mixed in. She’d take the chicken pieces and douse them in the flour, then she’d lay the white, powdered pieces in a pan, all packed in together like babies in a hospital nursery. That was it. No extra spices. No secret sauces. Just flour, salt, pepper and chicken. She’d slide the pan onto the top shelf in the oven and shut the door.

Then she’d use the leftover flour as the base of her biscuits, so there was no waste. She’d add a little more flour, then pour a little baking powder into the palm of her hand and tip it into the bowl. She’d cut in some butter. Or lard if she had it. Then she’d pour in some milk. No measuring cups. No measuring spoons, other than the cupped palm of her hand.

“How do you know how much to put in?” I’d ask.

“Oh now,” she’d say, as she was kneading the dough onto a breadboard, “you just pour in enough so that it looks right.” She’d have flour on her forehead, looking all farm-girl beautiful without knowing it in the least. She’d cut the biscuits from the rolled-out dough with an upturned water glass and slide the circles onto an ungreased cookie sheet. One that was all black and burnt from so much use. Then she’d sneak the cookie sheet on a rack under the cooking chicken and start washing the vegetable. Let’s say she was making asparagus, since we’re dreaming here. She’d plop the spears in a pot of water and put it on the stove. Then she’d boil every living bit of life out of those spears. The chicken would be both crispy and tender at the same time. The biscuits—flaky and light and dripping in butter and jam. But that poor asparagus would be a soggy, flavorless mess.

Two out of three ain’t bad.

Dad

It’s a helluva heaven, but it’s all we’ve got.

Dear Trevor,

My life up here is like a cup of warm water for a teaspoon of yeast, with a little sugar added in for good measure. The yeast is dumped in, and now we’re all waiting to see if it’s still alive. We’re all waiting for a little foam in the cup. So far, nothing.

As I told you in my last letter, I’ve been walking crazy-haired Julia back and forth in front of Carl and Gordon’s cabin, hoping to lure one of my neighbors out of their hibernation and into the dim light of outdoors. Alas, my plan has backfired and I’ve only succeeded in attracting Martin, that big, bitter bastard. I can’t imagine how Martin ever managed to get elected to a city council position back when he was alive. He’s such a bully. I almost wonder if he’s happier here than he was in your world. He seems like someone who must have hated life.

“Welcome to heaven,” he said to Julia, huffing his way out of his cabin as we walked out front. “It’s a helluva heaven, but it’s all we’ve got.” When he reached us, he grabbed Julia’s hand and pumped it up and down, a bit too enthusiastically. He ignored me completely, except to bump me farther away from Julia with his right buttock.

Julia managed half a thank-you and half a smile—she tended to complete most of her acts only halfway before seeming to get distracted by another movement or another thought. She ran her fingers unsuccessfully through her pile of hair and glanced back and forth between Martin and me.

“If this shrimp is done boring you with stories of his kids, why don’t you let me show you around? I could certainly use your company. Whaddaya say?”

“I, uhh…” muttered Julia, as Martin herded her down the dirt path in front of the cabins. I stood and watched the two of them walk away, their walk punctuated by Martin’s big butt cheeks shuffling up and down inside his slacks and Julia’s confused backwards glances.

There I stood, alone again, wondering how Martin had managed to take away my only company and suddenly understanding why he’d managed to get elected to public office back on earth. Then irony struck when Carl spoke behind me, “Lost the girl, eh, you Welsh dwarf?” Julia’s presence hadn’t lured Carl out, but my loss of her had been more than he could resist commenting on.

I smiled grimly as Carl walked up beside me. Perhaps he was only willing to be in my company when he was sure I was suitably miserable.

Enough of that—let’s talk about your basketball dilemma. Your mom wants you to play. You don’t want to. She thinks you’re good enough. You don’t. I tend to side with your Mom, but I have no idea if you’re any good. You may indeed suck. So go out for the team. If Schick tells you you’re lousy, you can blow off his opinion as that of an idiot.

Easy for me to say, right? I don’t have to deal with your mom or Schick’s judgment.

I’ve got judgment of my own to deal with.

Dad

Friendship is often more a matter of distribution than of fit.

Dear Trevor,

Julia is missing more than just her lipstick. I think she may be missing a good chunk of her brain as well. She’s nuts.

She has a hard time completing a regular sentence without saying, “There must be a decent drugstore around here somewhere.” For the first few days, I kept saying, “What you see is what you get, I’m afraid.” Now I’ve taken to saying, “Yes, I hear that Walgreens is very interested in the vacant property next to the post office. It’s just a matter of time.”

My guess is that Julia was on some pretty potent prescription drugs. She hasn’t come to terms with the fact that her new body—or the lack thereof—doesn’t have much need for any medication. I think for her, it’s more a matter of habit than actual need. Or perhaps force of habit is just as strong as force of need.

I’ve convinced Julia to leave her bench in front of Sung-Hee’s and go for walks with me. Not because I particularly enjoy her company, but because I figure if I walk her back and forth in front of Carl and Gordon’s cabins, her presence may entice one of them to rejoin me in some form of conversation. I miss their company. That’s all I have up here—other than your letters—the company of these crusty men.

I would likely never have chosen to be friends with either of them, were I back in your world. But, you now, it’s often availability that creates relationships. Friendship—too strong a word, but it will have to do—is often more a matter of distribution than of fit.

Julia, I fear, is inadequate bait to lure these two old fishes from their holes. But she’s all I’ve got.

Dad

I’ve taken to visiting with Julia, she of the unkempt hair.

Dear Trevor,

I wouldn’t worry too much about the bird you killed. Death, it turns out, is a part of life. I’m glad it affected you, though. I’d hate to think that you were one of those kids who killed animals for fun.

I also understand about your post-Christmas funk, if that’s what you were trying to say. I fell into one of those most years as well. Used to drive your mother crazy. I’d drop out of work to stay home with the family, then end up just laying around. Perhaps us Griffiths do better with a tighter schedule.

Wherever I am now, I feel like I’ve fallen into one of those funks and can’t climb out. I’m pretty certain everyone here feels the same way. Gordon is still closed up in his cabin like some sort of sardine in a can. Martin is even more acidic than usual, flinging dirty insults at whoever walks by. Sung-Hee sits at her window table, looking out into the fog and probably wishing for customers. Even Carl, who is typically the most positive of all of us—even though he thinks we’re in hell—has refused to visit with me.

So I’ve taken to visiting with Julia, she of the unkempt hair. Whenever I see her, Julia tries to smooth her bird’s nest down and reaches around her as if she’s just lost her wallet.

“Looking for something?” I asked, the first time I noticed this.

“Oh, lipstick. I seem to have left it on the plane. I don’t suppose a lady can get lipstick somewhere around here…”  He voice trailed off. I shrugged, not wanting to be the one to give her the bad news.

As I told you before, Julia was a guidance counselor in her former life, or her only life. She didn’t marry until she was 37, when she connected with a husband with three teenage kids from a former marriage. His name was Steve. Or Ernie. She suddenly can’t remember. It’ll come back to her in time.

Julia still sits on the bench outside of Sung-Hee’s all day long, although she’s begun spending her nights in one of the small cabins to the far left of me, four cabins past Martin. She’s a nervous woman, always fidgeting with her clothing, tapping her fingers and saying things like, “well now” and “Oh, for the love of God.”

Oh, for the love of God. That one might take on a new meaning for her, once she’s stared into the fog for a year or two.

Good luck at school.

Dad.

If you love having nothing to do, then you’d love it here.

Dear Trevor,

If you love having nothing to do, then you’d love it here. That’s my every day.

I guess that’s partly why the boat has such an impact on me. It comes stinking of death and life in a world without smell. When it leaves, it is a relief, but then this world seems o so much more empty than it did before.

We still have a couple of newcomers in town. The woman with the unkempt hair is named Julia. She’s been occupying a table at Sung-Hee’s since she arrived. When Sung-Hee closes at night, Julia sits on the bench outside, waiting for her to open again.

It’s hard to get much information out of Julia, as she still seems shell-shocked by the whole experience of arriving here. But based on her stuttering conversation, she was a high school guidance counselor. She was driving home from Christmas shopping for her stepchildren—at least I think it was for her stepchildren—when she hit a patch of ice on the road. Next thing she knew, she was coming off a plane and climbing onto a train.

Deep down, I’m pretty sure she knows she’s dead, but she’s not willing to say it out loud. I’ve tried to get her to move into one of the cabins, as there are a few available. Not so much for her sake, as the cabins don’t provide much more comfort than her bench and table, but it’s mildly annoying to see her sitting there all day. I wish she would at least comb her hair. She could be kind of pretty if she would put in a little effort.

Gordon has hit an all-time low. He hasn’t said a single word to me since the boat pulled out. He went into his cabin and hasn’t come out. He won’t answer my knock and I’m not willing to barge in on him uninvited.

Quite the thrilling time.

Dad

This is my terrible Christmas gift to you.

Dear Trevor,

The boat came and went today. I’m still here. I can’t get on it.

Gordon was sitting with me on my porch, running his fingers through his longish, gray hair, when we heard the sound of the train. He jerked rigid, then grabbed my leg. “You hear it, too, don’t you? That means she’s coming. That means I have a choice to make. It is time to act. Time for the experimentum crucis.”

“Eh?”

“The crucial experiment. Literally, the experiment of the cross.”

I followed Gordon to the train depot, where we could already see the old train screeching to a halt. A minute later, the door opened and the newcomers started stepping off, about a dozen in total. Like always there were three basic types. Some climbed off the train and wandered directly into the woods, as if the trip was an orchestrated camping trip. These ones never said much. A young blonde woman—probably 25—walked by me on her way toward the trees. She looked like she’d just stepped out of a college lecture, with her brow still furrowed from a debate.

“Where are you going?” I asked her. She turned toward me, startled a bit by the sound, but when she saw me, she shook her head. I mean she shook it as if she were clearing out cobwebs. She frowned even more and walked past me toward the trees. When she reached the nearest one—a rough-barked Douglas fir, she put her hand on it and stopped there, as if catching her breath. She stroked the bark, looked back my way for the briefest of seconds, then stepped past the Doug fir into the shadows.

The second type were the wanderers. The people like me. They look completely baffled by the experience. A woman with unkempt hair and bright red lipstick almost asked me a question, but all she could manage was, “Do you?” She turned a bit frantically away and  followed the rest of the wandering crowd. As she walked, she kept trying to smooth down her hair.

As always, there were a few Crazies who led the way. The wanderers always follow them right down to the dock. I always follow them, too.

There were three Crazies this time—a fat Hispanic man in a freshly pressed white shirt, a thin-faced old woman with straight, steel-grey hair that fell to her shoulders, and a young man with rectangular glasses and a huge smile. This young man—I’d put him at about 25, too—led the way today. He shouted a laugh when he stepped off the train and practically ran for the dock. Gordon huffed along behind him with the others. I followed, farther back. It’s funny how people follow someone who is sure of himself, even if they have no idea where he is going. That young man would have made an incredible salesman. He sold his destination.

When we reached the dock, the boat had not yet arrived.

Gordon had a small, ratty suitcase with him. “Going somewhere?” I asked him. He smiled grimly without looking my direction. He was staring with everyone else, out into the fog. “What’s in the bag?” I asked.

“Very little,” he said to the fog. “Mostly just scribbles. A few pencil stubs.” He paused. “Am I the only one with luggage?”

I didn’t answer, because the boat arrived.

I know I complain about how little my five senses work in this half land, but when that boat came in, I wished I could have cut them off completely. The sight of all that blood, the smell of all that blood—I wanted to run back to my little cabin and climb under the covers.

The woman captain looked through her beaten, puffy eyes as she eased that wreck of a boat alongside the dock. The young man with rectangular glasses grabbed a line from the dock and tossed it expertly around a cleat on the boat’s deck. With a few quick spins of his wrist, the boat was tied off. He jumped from the dock to the deck without hesitation.

“Here I go,” whispered Gordon. He moved with the crazies toward the boat. When it was his turn, the young man smiled at Gordon’s little suitcase and said, “Can’t bring that, Uncle. Toss it away and climb aboard.”

“Ahh, it’s just a few tiny things.”

“A few tiny things that can’t come with you. Hurry and toss it. I want to get going!”

I rushed up to Gordon’s side. “Going where?” I asked. I think I sounded a bit desperate.

“You know!” the young man shouted. “Everyone knows! Every tongue declares our destination! Now climb aboard or cast off.”

Gordon moved to step on. The young man blocked his way, nodding at Gordon’s bag. When Gordon hesitated, the young man yanked the line from the cleat and threw it back onto the dock. The woman captain looked at me. I could not hold her gaze. It was so terrible. She was so beaten, so bruised, so swollen everywhere.

I turned and ran—yes, I ran—into the Laughing Gull. Sung-Hee had coffee waiting. She was ready for the confused crowd. I grabbed a napkin and, using the coffee, painted this portrait of the captain’s battered, feminine face.

This is my terrible Christmas gift to you.

Dad

Nothing. No boat. Just more waiting.

Dear Trevor,

Nothing. No boat. Just more waiting.

The fog has been particularly thick lately. I can barely see the end of the dock. I think when that bloody boat does come in, it will appear instantly, as if cutting through a gray sheet.

Maybe it won’t come anymore. Maybe what we have here, right now, is what we will always have. I don’t think I’ll be able to stand that. All this waiting with no payoff.

It must be almost Christmas where you are. Your mother always loved Christmas. She would start playing Christmas carols the day after Thanksgiving. She knew most of them by heart and would sing harmonies along with the CDs. Your mom had a pretty solid alto.

I have a Christmas memory of you: You were four years old. The last Christmas I spent with all of you. I was still feeling pretty healthy in those days. You’d found this toy you wanted in a Target flyer. Or maybe you saw it on TV. It was some sort of Play-Doh set where you’d put a glob of Play-Doh in one end, squeeze a lever, and watch Play-Doh hair grow out of a little plastic man at the other end. You told everyone you could think of that you wanted that thing. Your brothers and sister, the neighbors, the mall Santa, mom and me. You even told the mailman when he came to the door one day. Maybe you thought he had an “in” with Santa.

A few days before Christmas, Mom and a kid or two were in the dining room wrapping presents. You’d been told specifically to stay the heck out. But you were dying to know if they might, just possibly, be wrapping the Play-Doh gift of your dreams. So you crept alongside the green chair and peeked around. You were all crouched down like some sort of jungle commando.

You gave a gasp, then covered your mouth with one hand. You pulled back out of sight and turned around. I was standing there, where I’d been watching you the whole time. You practically jumped out of your skin. “What are you doing, you little rat?” I said, in a voice I hoped was playful and forgiving. I laughed and picked you up, but you had this look of such overwhelming guilt on your face. You didn’t say a word. I think you were waiting for my wrath, which never came, of course. I don’t remember much else.

Gordon came over to my porch to watch with me. I have a better view of the dock. And I’m closer to the train tracks. From my porch, I can see the boat come in and hear the train.

“I may just get on that thing tomorrow,” Gordon told me. He’s said the same thing many times before.

“How do you know it’s coming tomorrow?” I asked.

“Don’t,” he said, “but it seems overdue. My God. All that blood.”

“And you’re really getting on it this time?”

“My God! I don’t know! Magna est vis consuetudinis.”

“What’s that one mean?”

“Great is the power of habit. How true that is, eh? This is a hard place to leave.”

“Especially when the only way out is on that bloody boat.”

“There’s always the woods.”

“Like you said, this is a hard place to leave.”

We stared into the fog a while longer. I’m not sure if I hope the boat arrives tomorrow or not.

Dad

Tomorrow, I think the boat is coming.

Dear Trevor,

You are an astonishing son. An amazing son. A man, perhaps, at least for a few moments.

What can I say to you? You are as good as any man and better than most. If I could sleep, I would dream that in some small way, I helped. Even the possibility that I helped is enough to get me through today.

Tomorrow? Tomorrow, I think the boat is coming. That awful boat, covered in blood.

Dad

I used Sung-Hee’s awful coffee as paint.

Dear Trevor,

My stomach is doing flip-flops. I don’t think it’s accurate to say I’m afraid of Mudgett. I’m just nervous for you. It’s the most I’ve felt about anything since I’ve been up here.

I walked down to The Laughing Gull to get an order of Sung-Hee’s fish and chips. I had to do something while I was waiting, to settle my nerves. So I made a paintbrush out of a scrunched-up napkin and used Sung-Hee’s awful coffee as paint. On the back of your own envelope, you now are the proud owner of The Laughing Gull, an original architectural painting by yours truly. Not as good as your work, but I have the excuse of limited art supplies.

I paid and left before Sung-Hee arrived with my order. I wasn’t hungry anyway and once I finished my, ahem, painting, I couldn’t stand to sit around and wait. I walked out to the end of the fishing pier and stared out into the fog. Then I walked over to the train station and stared down the tracks. Nothing.

It gets very quiet around here just before the newcomers arrive. It’s quiet now.

I went over to Carl’s cabin and told him about your upcoming showdown. I don’t usually share my news of you with anyone. I think I caught him off guard. He looked at me with squinty eyes, as if I was trying to trick him.

“This other kid any good?” he asked.

“No idea. Takes taekwando lessons.”

“Then you should have told your boy to avoid clinches,” he said.

“Too late,” I said.

I thought talking to Carl would settle my nerves, but he became more nervous than me. That made me nervous. He kept drilling me on my instructions to you. “Is his stance as flat-footed as yours? You tell him to keep his chin tucked in? How’s his left hook?”

“I didn’t tell him about a left hook.”

“What? A left hook should follow a right cross! Whyn’t you tell him about a left hook?”

“I thought it would be too complicated.”

Carl pursed his lips and nodded quickly. “Maybe you’re right. Yes. Best to keep it simple. Jab and a right cross. That could do it, if he’s lucky. Is he lucky?”

“Well, his dad’s dead. But he lives in a house on the beach.”

“Seems like a fair trade to me.” Carl barked out an abrupt laugh, then grew instantly quiet.

Now all I do is wait. By the time you get this one, it will all be over.

Dad

I’ve taken on your fear of Mudgett.

Dear Trevor,

Our bargain is done. I’ve taken on your fear of Mudgett. I could be mistaken, but I think I actually felt it come upon me, in a strange sort of way. I have no feeling of dread, just a slight acknowledgement of a new presence.

I don’t fear Mudgett any more than I did before. Why should I? He can’t do anything to me. This place I reside in may have a million drawbacks, but Mudgett’s presence is not one of them. And I believe I would relish a good dust-up with the little punk.

It makes sense, when you think about it. Just because I took on your fear of him doesn’t mean it should weigh as heavily on me as it weighed on you. He can do nothing to me. “Bear each other’s burdens.” Genius. It’s easy for me to bear your burden. That’s why God told us to do it. That old Bible really gets it right sometimes.

You may not yet agree with this, but I can’t wait for you to meet Mudgett again.

You asked what you owe me in return. I don’t know. For now, how about if you just file away an IOU? Once I figure out what you can do for me, I promise I’ll cash it in.

Keep me posted.

Dad

With God as my witness, here is my bargain with you.

Dear Trevor,

A bargain. “An oath of The Other.” That’s what your Mrs. Henry called it. Let’s make a bargain, Trevor. Let’s do something that makes a difference in your life. Let’s solve this problem of Will Mudgett—of your fear of him. Is it possible? Is it mystical nonsense? Is it true religion or just wishful thinking on my own, impotent part? What the hell. Let’s find out.

With God as my witness, Trevor, here is my bargain with you. I will take your fear of Will Mudgett. I will bear the fear for you. With God as my witness, I am willing to be the bearer of your fear. When you next see Mudgett, I want you to remember that your fear of him is no longer your own. I’m taking on that fear, so you can’t have it. It is no longer your property or your burden. It is mine. I pledge this to you, Trevor, in clear view of God Almighty, should he actually prove to exist.

“Bear each other’s burdens,” Trevor. That’s what the Bible says, right? Let’s try it.

Dad

You’ll love both the beauty of that moment and the predictability of its arrival.

Dear Trevor,

I like your drawing of David Gilman. I wonder if he realizes he is a jerk.

It’s strange to hear about your minute-by-minute struggles via letter. This medium takes the most active parts of your life—the mud kicked up from an attacker’s soccer cleats, the sour smell of a bus full of players, the balls and threats flying around from seat to seat—and turns them into black words on a piece of thin white paper.

When I was your age, I always felt so trapped by the close-up view I had of my own life. At least I think I felt that way. I wanted to know where I would go, what turn my life would take. And I wanted to know on a day-to-day basis. What would happen after school? What would happen tomorrow?

As you grow older, Trevor, you’ll see that perspective just comes. You start to get less concerned about tomorrow, simply because you’ll have lived through so many tomorrows that you’ll have a pretty good idea what will happen. One week is pretty much like any other week. I don’t mean this to sound depressing. Every week will have surprises. Even the most predictable of things, like seasons of the year or Daylight Savings Time, always seem to come bursting unexpectedly around a corner. But you’ll even come to expect the surprises. Fall will come. The sugar maples will turn a red so bright you can barely stand to look at them. You’ll love both the beauty of that moment and the predictability of its arrival.

I wish you could have my perspective on your struggle, Trev. I wish you could see what I see—that your conflict with Mudgett is only a tiny little eyelash twitch in your life. I wish you could see that the planets and stars do not revolve around Mudgett and you, waiting to see what will happen.

Carl and I have a bet going on when the newcomers will arrive. I say tomorrow. He says the next day. We argued halfheartedly about what to bet. I suggested that if I win, Carl would have to clean my cabin for a month, but we both realized that my cabin never gets dirty and that neither of us would have any idea how long a month lasts. Carl suggested that the loser has to go on a coffee run down to the Laughing Gull, but we both hate the coffee there.

Finally, we just agreed to make a gentleman’s bet, even though neither of us are gentlemen. If I win, I am declared a winner. I suppose that’s something.

Dad

The only blood to be found in this place seems to be on the boat.

Dear Trevor,

Don’t worry about David Gilman and his “wussy boy” comment. He’s one of those guys who says whatever sounds cool that day. Tomorrow he’ll be making fun of his best friend if he hears someone doing that.

David Gilman is the stupidest kind of bully. He is not worth considering. Your Mrs. Henry, however, is a different matter. She is certainly worth a study.

I think I understand what she is saying with her theories. If God is more than bunk, than time and space and life and death have to be meaningless to him. Otherwise, what would the point be of praying for your brother to have a safe trip.  You’re praying that God will somehow go with him into the future, in another location, and impact the surface of the road he drives on and keep other cars from running into him. Would it be possible, Mrs. Henry is postulating, to pray for something that also happened in the past? Would it be possible to make an oath with someone, with God as your witness, who was on the other side of the world or even, dare I say it, dead? I have an idea or two on how we might test her theory, but it would be great to hear more from Mrs. Henry.

Boxing has become a bit of a hobby with Carl and me. We wrapped our fists in a couple of Sung-Hee’s dish cloths and punched a sack of beach sand and rags. It doesn’t have the heft of your heavy bag, but then again, either do my punches. I can’t seem to hit the bag hard enough to tire out my hands. Carl derides me for my weak arms, but his don’t seem to hit any harder.

We tried a little sparring as well. Carl slipped a hard jab through and hit me right in the nose. I expected blood to come out and kept touching my nostrils with my rag-wrapped hands, but no blood.

The only blood to be found in this place seems to be on the boat and its bloody woman captain. As far as I can recall, the boat hasn’t been here in a while, which means we should be seeing it any day. I long for and dread its appearance, as well as the appearance of newcomers. Believe me, any diversion is precious, but each newcomer who arrives and then leaves is another painful reminder that I am still here.

Dad

Wine comes in at the mouth and love comes in at the eye.

Dear Trevor,

While I was waiting for your letter I visited Gordon. Gordon is one of my neighbors—the classics professor. His cabin is smaller than mine and looks like it was made of old signboards. Gordon says it’s so drafty that he can never get warm at night. I sat tenderly on his railing and asked him if he knew anything for certain.

“I am quite certain that one cannot obtain a decent tobacco in the afterlife,” he replied.

“I’m serious, Gordon.”

“So am I. Quite.”

“But what do you really know for certain?”

He thought for a moment, cleared his throat, and said,

 Wine comes in at the mouth
 And love comes in at the eye;
 That’s all we shall know for truth
 Before we grow old and die.
 I lift the glass to my mouth,
 I look at you, and I sigh.”

He cleared his throat again. “Yeats. Not exactly my bailiwick, but always been fond of the fellow.” He mumbled a few things, then went inside his cabin, shut the door and didn’t come out the rest of the day.

I didn’t mean to send old Gordon into a funk, but I get what he was saying. A good tobacco is something one can know. Wine is something one can know. Looking at a beautiful woman is something one can know. And, as Yeats said, that’s all we shall know for truth.

That’s what Gordon believes. I wish there was something more that I could know, for certain. But maybe Gordon is ahead of me, with his simple approach. If he’s right, why does he seem so depressed about it?

Dad

A cross, my son, is the most powerful punch in boxing.

Dear Trevor,

Time to work off all that Thanksgiving food. Get back to that heavy bag and keep boxing. We talked about your stance and how to jab. Now, to keep it simple, let’s just focus on one other good move that you could perfect. The one-two punch.

All you need here is to throw a right cross after a jab. And a cross, my son, is the most powerful punch in boxing. It follows a left jab as naturally as boys follow a dogfight. A right cross is just a straight punch, full force. So you’re in your stance: Knees bent, back straight, left foot forward, elbows in to shield your body, fists relaxed and up to shield your chin. You’re working that left jab, feeling out your opponent, getting your distance down.

Jabbing with your left keeps your left shoulder forward where it should be. While you’re jabbing, look for an opening. When you see one, jab hard. Pop! Your left hip is forward now, too. Then, as you bring your left hip and your left fist back, you use that momentum to slam out that straight right, in hard at Mudgett’s chin. All that movement—your left side coming back and your right arm going out, will make that right cross hit like a jackhammer. Bam! Hit that chin with all you got, then pull that right back up to your chin, back to your protective stance and ready to do it again. The one-two punch. Pop! Bam! Back in position.

Get that down, Trev, and you can lick Mudgett. Work out on that heavy bag. Keep that stance. Stay on your toes.

Dad

I’m not sure if I’m thankful for anything else.

Dear Trevor,

Thanksgiving? That means we’re near the end of November? Or you are, at least. I never would have guessed as much. For some reason, I thought it must be February or March by now.

What am I thankful for? I’m thankful for your letters. I devour them when they arrive. I’ve read them all a dozen times at least. Your quotes roll around in my mind like a bit of beach glass in the surf. Your words get less sharp and more luminous the more I think about them.

What else am I thankful for? Hmmm…I suppose I have friends here, if you could call them that. Carl is a sort of friend. But if he were gone tomorrow, I don’t think I’d miss him. He’s like a human end table. He serves a function, but one I could easily live without. Gordon isn’t any better, although I am thankful for his Latinisms. The other day, Martin, Gordon and I were gathered around a plate of Sung-Hee’s soggy French fries and Martin started raving about the poor quality of the food. Sung-Hee told him to shut up. Gordon said, “audacter calumniare, semper aliquid haeret,” which translates as, “Slander boldly, something always sticks.”

I’m definitely not thankful for Sung-Hee’s food. Is it better than nothing? Only in the sense that a rolled up ball of paper is more fun for a child than no toys at all.

Martin, that bitter man—I could do without him completely. I always think of him as a former city councilman. He is former. In the present, he is nothing but sourness in size 48 pants.

I’m not sure if I’m thankful for anything else, other than my memories. Memories are not enough.

Happy Thanksgiving.

Dad

I always had a pretty humble goal: just land one good punch.

Dear Trevor,

Oh, my son, I am sorry. Mostly.

I am jealous, too. What I wouldn’t give for a chance to spar with someone. To feel battered and out of breath. You shouldn’t wear your black eye with any kind of shame at all. Wear it with pride. Patton—he was a general in World War Two and kind of a jerk—was shot through the buttocks during World War One and was famous for dropping his pants to show his scar. If Patton took pride in a butt scar, you can certainly take pride in a black eye.

Let Mudgett know how you got it. Tell him you were boxing with your brother who is five years older than you. Tell him your brother retaliated after you rang his bell. Give Mudgett something to think about.

Stick with it. Here’s lesson number two—the jab:

Remember, you’re jabbing with your forward hand—your left hand. So you got your hands up about chin high, palms facing each other, formed into fists, but relaxed. You’re on your toes, with your right foot back.

In one motion, you’re going to push off from your right foot, step forward with your left, then do a quick punch with your left hand. As your hand goes forward, you’re going to twist your hand so that the punch lands palm-down. As soon as you land that punch, push back off your left foot and get out of reach. Land on your right foot and get ready to do it again.

Once more: Push off from the right foot. Step forward lightly with the left. Quickly punch your right hand straight forward, landing the punch palm-down. Push back with your left foot and get back into position. You’re popping forward and back. Pow. Pow. Pow.

Do that for a while on the heavy bag. Don’t even worry about your right hand yet.

When my neighbor Carl sees me shadow boxing on my porch, he comes over to give advice and to watch. “You’re flat-footed again, you old Welsh bag of bones,” he yells. “Put your chin down. Don’t give ‘em so much of a target.” “Keep your elbows in.” He and I were lucky enough to grow up in an era where a little friendly boxing was a pretty stress-free rite of passage. It wasn’t that big of a deal if you won or lost. It was more about if you could take a licking. At least, that’s how I remember it.

Think about this, Trevor. You got socked right in the eye by a kid five years older than Will Mudgett. Sure, you got a black eye. But you survived just fine. Bags of peas, embarrassment—you can handle those. Throw in a fat lip, a bloody nose and maybe even a chipped tooth. You can handle those as well.

When I was a kid and got into a fight, I always had a pretty humble goal: just land one good punch.

Dad