I watch others come in and go out. They go on. I stay.
Dear Trevor,
As for watching, I fear that I was a watcher too much of my life.
As I read your letters about this Will and Misty, I’m not sure who is the villain and who is the hero. I guess from my point of view, as the third-hand reader of your second-hand narrative, that Will is the obvious villain—the one you’d expect to be the bad guy in a movie. But I think Misty Lee may be the real villain.
The trick is, she’s only the villain in this little chapter. In the next chapter—and that turn of the page from one chapter to another happens second by second—she may be the hero or the damsel in distress. One moment, she may be playing one boy against another like a kid poking ants with a pin. The next moment, she may be in the class of that teacher of yours, Mr. Schick, where he’s shaming her for some harmless part of her nature.
When I got out of the service and went to school, I was sure as could be that I wanted to be a writer or an English teacher. That’s what I was meant to do, I’m pretty certain. I’d saved enough in the service to go to college and I made it three-and-a-half years through Seattle U before my uncle talked me into going into the real estate business with him. So I did that. Opened up the office, started signing papers and scratching out a little money one weathered house at a time.
I spent as little of the money I made as I could. Like your mother says, I am naturally thrifty. But I always managed to take a little money to the bookstore and buy books. It drove your mom crazy when we’d go weeks at a time without stepping into a restaurant, but books would show up in the mail. Faulkner, Stegner, Greene, Roth, Vonnegut, Bellow. I would cut off my left arm for a little case of their books right now, where short, sharp sentences nearly set the book paper on fire.
My own rambling writing in these letters here always works shyly around the corners, taking these four paragraphs to get to the point. Here it is: Those men—certainly greater men than me—they did what I wanted to do. They put pen to paper and made their living at it. I only dreamed about it. I only watched them do it. The only writing I did was real estate closing documents and believe me, no one ever reads more than a few words of those.
I’m still a watcher. I sit here in this seaside village of watchers. I watch others come in and go out. They go on. I stay.
Let me know what happens with Will Mudgett. If I was there, I’d be watching, too.
Dad
I can’t imagine that she’ll say yes, but what do I know about girls.
Dear Dad,
The big news today is that Will Mudgett is supposedly going to ask Misty Lee to go with him tomorrow. I can’t imagine that she’ll say yes, but what do I know about girls.
Whenever I saw Misty Lee today, she was surrounded by about five other girls, all whispering and shaking their heads. Whenever I saw Will Mudgett, he was either by himself or with his only friend, Chuck Klein, who wears these huge, fake diamonds in his pierced ears.
It’s kind of a relief to have Will Mudgett moving his focus off of me and onto Misty Lee, because he was still freaking me out on a regular basis. He still sits by me in social studies, when he decides to show up. Sometimes, when I look over at him, he is just staring at me like he wishes I was dead. Donnie still thinks I should just punch him or something. Like Donnie would ever do anything like that. I spent half of fourth grade fighting for Donnie when a fifth grader would pick on him.
I don’t know how everyone knows what Will Mudgett is going to do. My guess is that he told Chuck and Chuck told someone else and then, about 5 seconds later, the whole seventh grade knew.
So now I’m on this side. I’m a watcher. And Will Mudgett is the performing monkey. Misty Lee—I would never call her a performing monkey, because she knows what she’s doing and loooves being the center of attention. It doesn’t matter if it’s because of a freak like Will Mudgett. If it meant that she’d be surrounded by a crowd of other girls all day, Misty Lee would probably go out with Hitler or something.
Anyway, it’s all supposed to go down tomorrow at lunch. I’ll be there watching.
Your son,
Trevor
When a kid with a dead dad says something like that, it always shuts everybody up.
Dear Dad,
Drew just left and I’ve escaped to my room so I don’t have to listen to Mom drill me about what a wonderful guy he is.
He was nice as pie. In fact, he makes me think of a piece of pie. Not homemade like Mom’s, but more of a store-bought pie like other kids’ moms always bring to potlucks. Generally sweet and filling. Drew smiled a lot and told mom what a beautiful home we have, which is basically not true. I mean, it’s fine and everything, but our carpet is old and none of our furniture matches. He was definitely getting carried away.
When we first started talking, Drew seemed excited. He smiled in that store-bought pie kind of way and said he’d found the best verse that explained what happened when you die. It is in Second Corinthians, chapter five. Drew said that it says, “To be absent from the body is to be present with the Lord.” I looked it up after he left. What it really says is, “We are confident, I say, and willing rather to be absent from the body, and to be present with the Lord.”
I asked Drew if that was the only verse. He said, “No. Of course not. But it’s the most clear.” It doesn’t seem clear to me, because Dad, you don’t seem to be present with the Lord. I mean, you haven’t seen God, have you?
I pushed Drew to tell me about some other verses and he reluctantly told me about how God says that one day he’ll separate the sheep from the goats, meaning that sheep are good and goats are bad. This made no sense to me, because goats and sheep both seem about the same to me. I mean, goats give milk and sheep give wool. My friend Paul is lactose intolerant and he can only drink goat’s milk. And I always get goat cheese on my gyro at It’s Greek to Me and it’s delicious.
Then he talked about a story called The Rich Man and Lazarus. Jesus tells the story, and in it, a rich man and a beggar named Lazarus both die. The rich man goes to hell, but he can look across this gully and see Lazarus all happy in some place called Abraham’s Bosom, which is weird. Abraham had a bosom? I guess it must mean his lap or something. But it would be weird to spend even a day in Abraham’s lap. I wouldn’t want to be in his lap for eternity. I suppose it’s just symbolic.
The rich man calls across the gully, asking Abraham to send Lazarus over to him with a glass of water. I suppose if I was in hell, I’d want a glass of water, too. But Abraham says that no one can cross the gully.
Here’s probably a stupid question: Are there any gullies up where you are?
When I asked Drew if Abraham’s Bosom was just another word for heaven, he rubbed his eyebrows with his finger and said, “I don’t know. Some people think it’s more of a purgatory.”
He showed me a couple of other weird verses, too, like where a guy was caught up into something called “the third heaven.” He said that in the book of Revelations, it says that heaven is described as a place where Jesus will wipe every tear from your eyes and there will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain. I liked that one quite a bit. Oh, and one other one said, “It is appointed to man once to die and after that the judgment.” That one doesn’t tell you much, but at least it’s pretty straightforward.
I kept trying to interrupt him and ask him about what actually happens when you die, like on a minute-by-minute basis. He said no one knows that. He said that since the Bible doesn’t have much to say about it, he doesn’t think it’s the point.
“It is to me,” I said. “And I bet it would be to you if your dad had died.” I knew that would shut him up and it did. When a kid with a dead dad says something like that, it always shuts everybody up.
After a minute of silence, he asked me if I was worried if you were in heaven or not. I said that yes, I was. He asked me if you’d asked Jesus into your heart. I said I’d already told him that Mom said you did. He said, “Then you don’t have anything to worry about.” Then he recited John 3:16 to me, about how if you believe in Jesus you have everlasting life.
“Yeah,” I said, “but is it a good life or a bad life? Because if you have everlasting life that’s bad, isn’t that basically hell?”
Drew said he had to go, but that he’d be happy to keep talking to me about this, which I thought was nice, considering how much he’d kept rubbing his forehead the whole time he’d been there.
Personally, I’m more confused than ever. I guess I think that maybe I know more about what happens when you die than Drew does. Not because I’m smarter than him, but just because of your letters.
Even with your letters, I still don’t really get what’s going on where you are. Isn’t there someone you can ask?
Your son,
Trevor
P.S. What do you mean when you say “my unbearable shame?” I thought we were being honest here. Can you please just explain it to me?
Filed under Letters from Son | Tags: abraham's bosom, absent from the body, Add new tag, adolescence, afterlife, bible, cancer, death, fatherhood, junior high school, pastor, rich man and lazarus | Comment (0)He spoke as if I’d just shot up heroin. All I did was chew a piece of Hubba Bubba.
Dear Dad,
I don’t think you should get on that boat, if that’s what going onward means. It seems like that boat must be going to hell.
I would like to hear more about the woods. You make them sound scary, which is weird to me, because of all the stories Mom tells me about hiking trips you took my brothers on, I can’t ever imagine you being scared to go into the woods. What are you afraid of?
We had our fifth soccer game yesterday, so the season is half over. We’ve won four games and lost one. I’m still playing on defense, which I like, because I get to see the ball coming before it gets to me, so I have time to think about what I should do. I don’t think I’m the greatest player or anything. I don’t start. But I think I’m OK. I’m pretty fast. Keith thinks Mr. Schick should play me as a midfielder and says Mr. Schick doesn’t know how to make use of my speed.
Mr. Schick calls me Rhino. I’m not sure if that’s good or not. Do you think it’s good? Is that some kind of soccer term I don’t understand? Mr. Schick is also my Bible teacher. Today in class I was chewing gum. He was talking about the prophet Samuel choosing David to be the king of Israel, then he stopped all of a sudden and looked at me.
“Trevor, are you chewing gum?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. I could feel my face getting hot.
Mr. Schick just stood there and stared at me without saying anything for about 15 seconds. The whole class got really quiet. Then he said, in kind of a whisper, “I’m very disappointed in you, Trevor.”
Geez! What a total dork! “I’m very disappointed in you, Trevor.” For chewing gum? He spoke as if I’d just shot up heroin or murdered his wife. All I did was chew a piece of Hubba Bubba.
I bet his wife is a hag. And not a sea hag. Just a regular, unhappy hag who never gets to chew gum.
But the thing that bugs me most of all is that I can’t stop thinking about it. I mean, Mr. Schick really is a dork. His hair is always greasy and he’s mostly bald anyway and he wears these glasses that ride way up on his nose. But if all it takes to be disappointed in me is for me to chew a piece of gum, what hope do I have?
I included a drawing of Mr. Schick. Ick. I’ve got to stop writing now. More tomorrow.
Your son,
Trevor
Filed under Letters from Son | Tags: Add new tag, adolescence, afterlife, fathers and sons, heaven, junior high school, letter, purgatory, teacher | Comment (0)If that’s what French kissing is, I don’t think she’s doing it right.
Note from the editor: The day is off on this post. Sorry.
Dear Dad,
It’s Monday and I’m writing from home today. I told Mom I didn’t feel good and she said I could stay home. We all figured out years ago that Mom wants to believe what we tell her. Either that or she just doesn’t want to hassle with disagreeing with us. I bet if you were here you’d just make me go to school. Anyway, here I am at home.
I like your stories about your neighbors. I get that you think it’s a boring place, but it still sounds kind of nice. I’d like to meet Gordon and hear him speak Latin. And I’d like to see the boat. What is it about the woman captain that you don’t like? You never said.
Also, if the boat really does go to Heaven, wouldn’t that explain why no one ever comes back?
I need to tell you about my weekend with Misty Lee. I went with her and Rick Jarvis and Sharon King to Misty’s church sleepover. It was actually pretty fun. They have a pastor guy named Drew. One of those guys who wears black t-shirts and jeans and thinks it makes him look young and cool. It doesn’t. Drew hung out with us and told us funny versions of Jesus’ parable about the prodigal son. It was pretty funny. When the prodigal son was out spending his money, he acted it out like Homer Simpson. Doh!
At the end, Drew asked if we had any questions about the story. No one said a thing. I think all the kids just wanted the talking part to be over. Then he asked if we had any questions about God or the Bible in general. I did, so I said, “What happens when we die?”
Drew got pretty excited about that question, because it gave him the perfect chance to get all preachy to us. Rick Jarvis groaned when I asked it and laid on his back and put his arm over his eyes.
“That all depends, Trevor,” Drew said. “The Bible says that if we ask Jesus into our hearts, then when we die we’ll go to Heaven and be with Him. But if we don’t we’ll go to hell.”
I said that was all fine, but wanted to know how it works exactly. Do you just appear in Heaven as soon as your heart stops beating? Do you just pop up there, like one minute you’re laying in bed, dying away and the next minute you’re standing on the streets of gold? Or do you go someplace first?
Drew didn’t know. He said that those kind of details aren’t the point. I said they that they were to me. He said that maybe it was time to play some games.
Then we started playing this big game of hide and seek and we were running all around the church chasing each other in the dark. I went running down this long hallway that was lined with doors and all of a sudden Misty Lee jumped out of one of the doors, grabbed me and pulled me into a dark room. “Come here,” she said and she guided me over to a couch. It was dark, but I could barely make out a desk and a bookshelf.
“Is this someone’s office?” I said.
“It’s Drew’s,” she said, pulling me down onto a couch and kissing me on the lips. We kissed for a while like that, with her hands on my face and my hands at my sides. I liked it.
“Do you think Drew reads all these books?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Misty said, between kisses. “Why do you care?”
“Do you think he has any books about heaven?”
“Probably,” she said. “Do we have to talk about this right now?”
Then she put her tongue in my mouth. I didn’t like it. It felt like some kind of sloppy creature sliding around in there, like a muscular slug. If that’s what French kissing is, I don’t think she’s doing it right. I think if she was doing it right, I would have liked it more. I didn’t put my tongue in her mouth, because she had enough tongue for the both of us. But I did put my arms around her to pull her closer—like people do when they kiss on TV. As soon as I did, Misty Lee jumped up from the couch and said, “Come on,” and ran out of the room.
That was it. We were back in the game of hide and seek and Misty Lee acted like the whole kissing thing had never happened.
Another thing I know about Misty Lee. She is in charge. I just follow along. She kisses me and not the other way around. Maybe I should try to be more in charge. She seems to really like kissing. Maybe I should kiss her more. Maybe I’ll try that at school, if I can find a chance and not chicken out.
So now back to the subject of what happens when you die. You know this, right? Drew doesn’t. But I mean, you died. Can you please tell me exactly how it worked for you?
Your son,
Trevor
Filed under Letters from Son | Tags: Add new tag, adolescence, afterlife, cute girl, fatherhood, fathers and sons, french kiss, junior high school, kiss, letter | Comments (3)Mrs. Fletcher, math troll.
Dear Dad,
Will Mudgett called me at home again last night. He told me he has been really sick. I don’t think he thought I believed him, so he said he could even bring the doctor’s note, if I wanted. I said I didn’t care. He told me he’d decided not to fight me right away. I was relieved. I almost started crying right there on the phone. Don’t tell that to anyone.
I’ve been thinking about that fight since he first brought it up, wondering if I would chicken out, if I would lose, even if he might actually stab me and I might actually die, with Misty Lee and all my friends looking on. And I thought about what you said, about how I should fight him, because that kind of stuff is part of living.
Maybe it helps a little, but man, Will Mudgett scares me so much I can’t eat.
Anyway, I went to school today, feeling more relaxed than I have since sixth grade. I saw Misty Lee and she showed me how she’d written our initials all over her book covers. M + T = L U V. It kind of creeps me out a little, but it’s kind of cool, too, in a dorky sort of way.
Will Mudgett came up and talked to me during P.E. I was standing behind the baseball backstop and he came over and stood next to me and basically repeated everything he said on the phone, about deciding not to fight me right away. He was still acting kind of cool, like he knew he freaked me out. I didn’t say a word back to him.
But he was right. He really freaked me out.
Donnie Joad was on the other side of me and after Will left he punched my shoulder and said, “Dude, how come you didn’t say anything? You acted totally gay. Now he knows you’re afraid of him!”
At lunch I sat by Misty Lee and Donnie and a few other people that I pretty much like. Donnie acted like he’d forgot all about me wimping out with Will Mudgett. Then after lunch I went to math class and Mrs. Fletcher said that we would be having a test on Monday. She listed out the kind of problems we’d be doing and the equations we were supposed to know. I felt so lost on most of them. I so don’t want to take that test. Mrs. Fletcher says I am a math idiot and she is right. If I could swap out all my math classes for English classes, I would do it in a second.
I drew a picture of Mrs. Fletcher and put it in with this letter. That’s pretty close to what she really looks like.
I think I may just stay home Monday and skip the test. I don’t feel very good anyway. But I have to go to school tomorrow, because tomorrow night I’m supposed to go with Misty Lee to this overnighter at her church and I kind of want to go. If I don’t go to school, I don’t think Mom would let me go with Misty Lee, even if her thing is at church.
I’ll keep you posted.
Your son,
Trevor
Filed under Letters from Son | Tags: Add new tag, adolescence, bullying, cute girl, girls, junior high school, kiss, math | Comment (0)