There are no calendars here. No clocks. No seasons.
Dear Trevor,
I don’t know what day it is. I don’t know how long it takes your letters to get here. I go to the post office and pick them up and go back to the post office and drop off a reply. That’s all I’ve got for you.
There are no calendars here. No clocks. No seasons. My hair grows, but that’s about the only way I have to track time. I should start keeping track of how many times Carl and I have cut each other’s hair with the kitchen shears. No daily newspaper. No monthly bills and no checks to write. No paydays. No weekend football games and no church on Sunday. No Sundays, as far as that goes. Nothing happens on a regular schedule except the train and the boat and honestly, they might not be regularly scheduled either. I really have no idea how often they come, just that they both come every now and then and when the train pulls in, the boat pulls in.
When the boat does pull in, that woman captain is always onboard. What does she look like? My God, it is hard to look at her and almost as hard to make a record of it now. You ask, is she covered in blood? She is dripping in it. I think she is likely the source of all the blood around the boat, but it’s hard to tell if the blood she’s covered in is her own. It may well be the blood of her victims, if that is how it works. Or she may be the victim herself. Is she the butcher at the slaughterhouse, or the cow with the slit throat? Either way, she is covered in blood.
It’s strange to sit in this little town, with its quiet fogginess and then see this bloody hag come creaking in on her tub. If the water is especially calm, her blood actually stains her wake. That’s how much of it there is.
It’s hard to see beneath the blood, because it is black and crusted in her hair like so many meat drippings. But every now and then I do see. Her face is a mess of scars. And not just scars, but open wounds. From week to week they change. One day her left eye may be swollen shut. The next time it may be her right. Her ears are cauliflowered and cut. Her lips are swollen and bleeding. Her mouth never opens, which is honestly a relief, because I’m sure it would either be a howl of madness or a howl of pain.
Hers is an image I will never get used to, but after countless viewings, I began to notice other surprising things. Her face is so covered in blood that it’s hard to see, but it is not an old face. It was likely well-formed once. Her body is bloody mostly, but the elemental shape of it is the shape of a young woman, with curving breasts and hips. To see such pain or wickedness in one that seems so young may be the hardest thing of all.
Excuse me for such language, but between us as father and son, she looks mostly like a whore, one that was pretty once, but has been savagely used and savagely beaten. Believe me, if you were to see her, you would not want to board her ship. If she is treated so miserably, what must happen to her passengers? She must be coming from hell and going back there, because she looks to be living in constant hell, covered in constant blood. And who treats her this way? They must certainly be waiting on the other end of her journey.
Enough of that. I don’t want to replace your dreams with nightmares.
It surprised me to hear that Pastor Mel died, as you say. I have not seen him come through our town, or if he has, I’ve not recognized him. That’s possible. I thought by now I’d have seen at least someone I know. But I don’t understand who comes this way and who does not. It is not the whole population of the world, to be certain.
I don’t recall that evening at the Robbins, but I can imagine it, I suppose. Honestly, Dorothy and her husband were two of the most uptight people in the neighborhood. They lived up on the hill, like that gave them some special position. I can’t remember her husband’s name. It has slipped away from me. But the two of them always used to look at all you kids as if you were a pack of wild dogs, as if you were our burden to bear, instead of our joy. If we spent an evening at their home, you have to forgive me for getting drunk, but it likely helped me get through it more pleasurably.
I have no desire for drink now. My mind is foggy enough as it is.
But you’re right. I could never carry a tune. A sad thing for a Welshman to be a poor singer.
How do you feel about Misty Lee? Are you heartbroken?
Dad