I’m not gonna back off on this one.

Dear Dad,

I’m not gonna leave you alone, you stubborn old bastard.

Remember way back in December, when we made that bargain? When you took on my fear of Mudgett? You said that in exchange, you’d file away an IOU. How about if you use it now? How about if I take on your fear of telling this story? How about if you give me your fear and then write freely?

Either way, I’m not gonna back off on this one, so you might as well spill. You’ve been talking about talking about this all year. It’s time you got down to it. Get it over with. Do.

If you don’t tell me, I’ll ask Mom.

Your son,

Trevor

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 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

Is my body still laying in the ground at Washington Memorial?

Dear Trevor,

Would you ever tell Mrs. Henry about our correspondence? Would you ever show her my letters?

I’m not sure I’m helping you. I wonder if the burden of our secret relationship is just one more thing to weigh you down. Secrets, for the most part, are not good for the soul.

Soul. Is that the right word? Is that what I am now? Is my body still laying in the ground at Washington Memorial while my soul is sitting on this cabin porch, staring down the hill into the fog?

I do think you should talk to Mrs. Henry about your struggles with Will Mudgett. I wouldn’t think of it as tattling. You’re just looking for advice. You don’t even have to name names if you don’t want to. But I wouldn’t be surprised if some of the teachers already knew something sinister was going on between you two. Adults, for the most part, are smarter than kids give them credit for.

Don’t let Mudgett get to you, Trev. He’s just a kid like you. Deep down, he’s probably as scared as you are.

In general, people are scared almost all the time. When you’re a kid, it’s more personal things, by which I mean that you tend to be afraid of what will happen to you, personally. Will a girl like ME? Will a boy beat ME up? Will I fail a test? Will I look stupid? When you become a father, it’s worrying about your family that keeps you up at night. Will my sons find good friends? Will my daughter find a good husband? Will my wife cope after I’m gone.

When the cancer was winning its battle against me, worrying about your mom and you kids just about did me in. While I was alive, I tried pretty hard to provide for you all. I drove your mother crazy with my thriftiness. She went without whole seasons of new clothes so I could buy all the property I could afford that seemed like good investments to me. Thinking about it now, I wished I’d let her buy a few more dresses. I’d trade my cabin for one chance to see her in a red dress, with her hair all done up.

I’m pretty sure most of my speculations were spot on. Those waterfront lots would have turned into serious money if you all had been able to hold onto them. But I knew that as soon as I died, things would get hard for your mom and you kids. She’d have to sell the lots for you all to live on. I told her to do so. I told her the order in which to sell them. In other words, I gave her a bunch of advice. Lying there in bed, trying not to cough up blood, there was nothing else I could do.

That’s how I feel now, in this in-between place, hearing about your struggles. Death has separated me from the ability to provide a solution.

Dad

We agreed early on to be honest with each other, right?

Dear Trevor,

We agreed early on to be honest with each other, right?

I think you are acting like a chicken. I don’t think you are a chicken.

You may think this is one of those workaround phrases that grown-ups like to use to avoid their true feelings. It’s not. I’m just trying to be precise. Even with our beautiful English language, saying what I feel is an awkward, stumbling exercise. When words connect to thoughts, it’s usually by accident.

I have acted out of fear so many times in my life. Fear is intricately wrapped up in so many of my days. Fear is part of my great shame. I am no hero.

I mostly joined the service as a way to pay for college, but like every guy in there, I knew I might actually see some action. I was fortunate enough to be in between any wars of note. I don’t think the government had much of a clue what to do with us at that time, so they stationed us on places like Johnson Island, where I ended up. We patrolled the thoroughly unthreatened shores, kept the never-used equipment running, and occasionally practiced fighting against each other, just to stay prepared for the real thing, should it ever happen.

A few times, a USO tour would come to our base with some tier-four starlet from a movie none of us had ever heard of. Or they’d fly in an unfunny comedian or fresh-out-of-the-minors ball player. And these guys or girls would get up on our little plywood stage and tell us how proud they were of us, how we were willing to sacrifice ourselves for our country, how we were the real heroes, not them.

I’d just sit there in my folding chair stewing. Thinking, if they knew what kept me awake at night. Thinking, if they knew how scared I was every time I went on patrol, even though there was no enemy to even be afraid of. Heck, even in World War II when the Pacific was hopping, Johnson Island never saw any action.

It didn’t matter. I was still afraid.

You’ve got these fears that seem to make you sick. The couple you’ve mentioned that I recall are Will Mudgett and jumping off the marina. I never jumped off that marina, by the way. Trevor, don’t let the way you act in these couple of moments define you. Unlike me, you’re still alive. You’ve still got a string of moments stretching out ahead of you. No single moment defines you. If it did, all your remaining moments would have no choice. Your actions would be preordained. They’re not.

Each moment of every day, you choose. If you let Will Mudgett make you piss your pants on Tuesday, on Wednesday, you can rush into traffic and push an old lady out of the path of a city bus.

I don’t think you’re a chicken.

I wish there were someone you could talk to. Maybe that Pastor Drew guy you mentioned before. Nah, I’d skip him. Maybe your English teacher. If she teaches English, she must be a reader. She’s got to have picked up a little wisdom in all those books.

Dad

Rhonda and Rhett think I’m faking it. They’re right.

Dear Dad,

 How do I feel about Misty Lee? Definitely not heartbroken. I guess I feel mostly confused and ripped off. I feel like a jerk for ever having asked her to go with me. I think she takes the whole thing about as seriously as choosing which TV show to watch. And I think Rick Jarvis is a jerk for asking her to go with him on the same day, but I guess he doesn’t take any of it seriously either.

I wish someone down here would take something seriously.

The one feeling that stays with me are the little hairs on her stomach.

And I now return to my original opinion: Misty Lee is not that cute.

What pisses me off even more are my friends, who sat by and watched the whole thing like it was some kind of show.

I guess I don’t have to worry about Will Mudgett trying to kill me anymore. I’m assuming he won’t want to kill me now. He’s hardly ever at school these days.

The whole world here is just one fake after another. No one means what they say, except my teachers, who say they’re going to give me bad grades and then do it. I’m almost grateful to them.

By the way, I stayed home from school again today. I told Mom I didn’t feel good. Rhonda and Rhett think I’m faking it. They’re right. But why should I go back?

Rhett said, “You’re scared of something. That’s why you’re staying home. You’re just being a pansy. Just like when you wouldn’t jump off the marina.”

I wish he would stop bringing that up.

Drew called again to tell me he is still working on answers to my questions. That’s all. He’s a pretty nice guy.

I felt sick to my stomach reading your description of the woman captain. She sounds like something out of a horror movie. I don’t think I would go and see her each time if she is so awful to look at. But I guess you always wonder about her. Does she have a name?

You stopped talking about her so that you wouldn’t give me nightmares, which made me wonder—do you have dreams? If so, what about?

Your son,

Trevor

I found out why Will Mudgett was so freaked out.

Dear Dad,

We won our first game 3-2. I played at the end of the first half and the end of the second half. It was pretty cool. I felt like I did OK. No one scored when I was on the field, so I guess I didn’t screw up too bad. Mr. Schick didn’t say anything to me one way or another.

Keith had all sorts of advice for me. I should attack the ball more. I should stay between the ball and the goal. I should dribble with my head up. I should talk more. I kind of wish he’d just lie and tell me I was good, but he’s always coaching me. He probably figures you would do the same thing if you were here and he needs to be a father figure for me. He’s nice, though. He takes me to Denny’s for ice cream sundaes, because his girlfriend works there and can give us ice cream for free if her manager’s not paying attention. Talk about real boobs. She’s got them big time.

I found out why Will Mudgett was so freaked out. He asked Misty Lee to go out with him and she said no, because she liked someone else. He asked who, but Misty wouldn’t tell him. Then Misty told Sharon King the story and Sharon King told Will Mudgett that Misty liked me. And now Will Mudgett wants to kill me. I don’t mean he is mad at me. I mean he literally wants to murder me. Murder. I heard all this from Rick Jarvis.

Then Rick Jarvis says, “Are you going to?” Am I going to what? “Are you going to ask Misty Lee to go out with you? Go out where? “Go out! You know, go out.”

I don’t know. I don’t know if I even like Misty Lee. But now if I don’t ask her to go out, everyone will think I’m scared of that crazy punk, Will Mudgett. Maybe I am.

What would you do?

Rick Jarvis said that tomorrow, Misty Lee was going to sit by me at lunch. “That is the perfect time,” he said. I didn’t ask him to explain, because I know what he expects me to do. And I definitely know what Misty Lee expects me to do. Misty Lee is really popular. I can’t figure out why. And I sure can’t figure out why she likes me so much.

I bet I’m six inches taller than Will Mudgett. I bet if it came down to a real fight, I would slaughter him. Unless he stabbed me or something. He probably wouldn’t do that. He probably doesn’t even have a knife.

I have a math test on Monday. I haven’t studied for it at all. I know I should, but I haven’t. I hate the homework. I haven’t done it for the last two days and now I don’t really know what Mrs. Fletcher is talking about in class.

I’m assuming you haven’t got any of these letters. I don’t really expect you to, being that you’re dead and all. But if you got a letter from me, you’d write back, wouldn’t you? I mean, if you could. If God allowed you to and if you had a body and a pen and envelopes and stamps.

I suppose it would also require there to be a post office in the afterlife. I don’t know if there is one.

Your son,

Trevor

Will Mudgett told me he was going to fight me.

Dear Dad,

Today at school, Will Mudgett told me he was going to fight me if I asked Misty Lee to be my girlfriend. I have no idea why he would say such a stupid thing to me. What do I care about Misty Lee? She’s not that cute. She doesn’t have buck teeth like Mrs. Edsel the music teacher, but her front teeth still stick out. And her hair is frizzy.

I don’t understand why someone like Mrs. Edsel doesn’t get her teeth fixed. She’s kind of pretty, except she looks like she cuts her own hair, and not very well. And she’s icy. Do you know what I mean by icy? She looks like she’d be cold to touch, although I can’t imagine touching her. OK, so maybe I can imagine touching her, but I still bet she’d be cold. She has dark hair and pale skin and doesn’t smile, even if she thinks something is funny. She smirks. I’ve never heard her laugh. She’s married, but it’s hard to imagine her ever being snuggly with her husband. Maybe they just have serious discussions and never really snuggle with each other.

Tomorrow is our first soccer game. I’ve never played in an actual game on a real team before. Mr. Schick has me playing right fullback. Mom said she won’t be able to come to the game, because it’s right after school, so she’s still at work. Keith is home from college. He said he’d come and then give me a ride home.

You know what I’d really like to do with Will Mudgett? I’d like to take him up to the top of the old marina and dare him to jump. I bet he’d be so scared he’d piss himself. I bet he’d wet his pants, just like Lee Reel. I’d pay money to see that.

That’s all I got today.

Your son,

Trevor

Misty Lee said I was cute.

Dear Dad,

Today Jodi Ragg told me that Misty Lee said I was cute. This is weird, because Misty Lee is still going out with Rick Jarvis. Not that they go out. There is no going out. Where, I ask again, are they going to go? It’s not like anyone even drives and I bet you a girl would think you were a total dork if you rode over to her house on your bike.

I saw Misty Lee at lunchtime holding hands with Rick in the corner of the cafeteria, until Mrs. Edsel, our buck-toothed-but-kind-of-pretty music teacher, told them to separate. I don’t know much about girls. Heck, I didn’t even know I was supposed to like girls until last week. But it seems weird to me that the girlfriend of one guy would say that another guy is cute. We’re on the same soccer team, for goodness sake! And between you and me, he may actually be a better soccer player than I am.

It must be nice to be a grown-up and not have to worry if you’re good at soccer or not. Personally, I’m only vaguely interested in it. I mean, I like playing and all, but I don’t freak out if I miss the ball or something.

We have our first game next week, by the way. I wish you could come. But I suppose that’s pretty unlikely.

Here’s a question for you: Did you ever jump off the old marina into the water? I’m pretty sure it’s at least 40 feet up, even at high tide. Maybe 50. Or did you jump off anything like that? I’m not afraid of heights or anything. I mean, I climb the cedar tree in our front yard way up to the top where it sways back and forth when the wind blows and I’m just fine with that. But I don’t have any desire to jump off the tree. Or the marina. I just don’t want to. Is there something wrong with that?

Your son,

Trevor