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

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

David Gilman said, “Yeah, wussy boy, don’t feel bad for losing the game for us.”

Dear Dad,

Today was our last soccer game. We lost two to one. It was tied up when some super fast guy on the other team came right at me. Someone on his team passed the ball and Super Fast Guy blazed past me.

I’m pretty sure he was offsides.

Anyway, Super Fast Guy scored. We lost. The season is over. Nobody hassled me about it at the game. I mean, it wasn’t like I was the only defender on the field. Last time I checked, soccer was still a team sport. And Super Fast Guy’s shot wasn’t all that great, but our goalie, Rick Jarvis, didn’t stop it.

The bus ride back to the school was going fine, considering we lost. Then it got real quiet, you know, like it does sometimes for no reason, and Donnie Joad said, “Trevor, you shouldn’t feel bad for letting that guy score.”

I think Donnie Joad was trying to be nice, but sometimes it’s really hard to tell. It got even more quiet after that, until David Gilman said, “Yeah, wussy boy, don’t feel bad for losing the game for us.”

“Quit calling him ‘wussy boy,’” said Donnie. “Why you wanna side with Mudgett?”

“I ain’t siding with Mudgett,” said David Gilman. “Mudgett’s a fag. And Trevor’s a wussy boy.”

Then somebody called Gilman a jerk and people started pounding on each other, then laughing, Then everything suddenly melted back to normal, while I sat there in a haze. All the talking and noise kind of swirled around me while I just heard a buzzing sound.

I’m pretty sick of this whole thing. I want to go back to elementary school.

Your son,

Trevor

P.S. I included a drawing of what Gilman looks like, sort of, on the bus after a soccer game.

I should have known that Mrs. Henry would even know about stuff like soccer.

Dear Dad,

Thanks for all the great advice and everything, but I don’t think it’s helping much. I went back to school today, mostly to avoid getting bugged by Rhonda for staying home. But I went to the nurse’s office to avoid going to social studies. Will Mudgett. He’s in there. If I go in the class, he’ll turn those dark eyes on me.

I tried to speak to Mrs. Henry today. I asked her if I could talk after class. She said sure. Then, when I walked up to her desk, I just stood there. She said, “What’s up?” All casual and friendly-like, because she’s really good at making kids feel comfortable. Like how she shows us stuff she wrote when she was a kid even though she knows it was bad, just so we feel more comfortable writing our own stuff. She read us this one story she wrote about these birds. The birds had dorky names like Hawkwing and Windrider. They talked to each other in this kind of pseudo-Lord-of-the-Rings-language. “Hail, Hawkwing. Thou art mighty of feather, with beak of stone.” We all laughed and she laughed along with us, which is so different than Mrs. Fletcher or Mr. Schick, who I bet would never admit to doing anything stupid in a million years, even though they do stupid things every single time they come to class.

So I stood there in front of Mrs. Henry’s desk, feeling like a total dork. What was I going to say? “Mrs. Henry, I wanted to tell you I’m pretty sure that total nerd, Will Mudgett, is going to stab me. My dead dad thought it would be a good idea if I talked to you.”

She said, “What can I do for you, Trevor?” I still just stood there. It was like when Eugene Tinkham gets up in front of class and then freezes. The whole class gets embarrassed, not just Eugene, because it’s so weird watching someone be that uncomfortable. Except Mrs. Henry didn’t seem embarrassed. I could tell her brain was working, behind all those smiley wrinkles. She was trying to figure out how to get me to say something. She was gearing up for her next technique.

“How’s the soccer season going?” she asked.

“Fine.”

“What position do you play?”

“Defender.”

“Ah, the most important position on the team.”

“How do you figure that?” I asked.

“Well, of course, it depends on your strategy. Did you watch the Italians in the 2006 World Cup? If your defense is strong enough, you only need one goal to win.”

I should have known that Mrs. Henry would even know about stuff like soccer.

“Of course,” she continued, smiling, “I’m not sure our Mr. Schick is quite up to the same level as the Italian coach.”

“Yeah, my brother Keith thinks he’s a dork.”

“Remind me again how many brothers and sisters you have,” she said.

“Three brothers and one sister,”

“And you’re the…”

“Youngest.”

“Ah. How old were you when your dad died?”

“Five.” See, this is the thing about Mrs. Henry. She doesn’t get all uncomfortable when she talks about tricky stuff like dead dads. She doesn’t start saying how sorry she is. She just jumps right in and talks about it.

“Do you remember much about him?” she asked.

“Kind of. Well, it’s sort of confusing, because I think I remember things about him or things we did. You know, like camping trips or going out in the boat. But then Rhonda or Rhett will tell me that I wasn’t even born then. So I think that sometimes when I think I’m remembering him, what I’m really doing is remembering stories about him.”

“That makes complete sense,” Mrs. Henry said. “William Wordsworth—he was a writer, like you—has a famous poem about how memory and imagination are the same thing. Trevor, you’re going to be late for class if you don’t go now. And my next class is going to start in one minute. But we could talk after class again tomorrow, if you like.”

That was it. It’s funny with people like Mrs. Henry, because we didn’t talk about anything, really, but I still felt better afterwards.

Your son,

Trevor

If you are slacking off, revel in the glorious idiocy of the game.

Dear Trevor,

I’m not certain what the term “Rhino” means, but I don’t care much for this Mr. Schick, so I wouldn’t assume it’s complimentary.

Excuse my dishonesty. I do know what he means. I’m done with any courtesies that require lies to accompany them. He’s calling you a rhino, because you’re charging the ball to hard. Do you blow past attackers? Don’t. Square off with them. Play on your toes. Wait for the attacker to make a mistake.

When I was alive, I thought that when I died that games and hobbies would reveal themselves as irrelevant. I was wrong. Every moment is relevant. I long for a run on a soccer pitch as much as I long for a child being born. At every moment, I wish I’d gone for it. Do you know what I mean?

I’m not trying to sound like a coach—do your best and all that. I’m trying to say that my hope for you is that you suck every bit of juice out of every moment of life. If you are playing soccer, be aware of every blade of grass under your cleats. If you are slacking off, revel in the glorious idiocy of the game. Feel every bit of the sting when a drop of sweat rolls into your eye. If the other guy beats you, go ahead and feel humiliated. The fact that you’re feeling means you’re in the game. You’re a player, not an observer. I think that may be all that matters. That you play. That you jump in.

Meanwhile, I sit on my porch and watch. Others get off the train and wander off into the woods. A few get on the bloody boat.

You asked about the woods. Let me describe them to you. The edges are full of brambles and shrubs, but once you get under the trees, the ground is mostly clear. The trees are huge—mostly firs and cedars, if I guess correctly. Huge ones. Reminds me of a place on Mount Rainier. I don’t remember the name, but your mom loved it. Huge old trees. Boardwalks to keep the tourists off the ground.

These trees are even bigger. My guess is that the constant fog makes them grow like that. Under trees that huge, the forest is always dark. Almost none of the dim light that we get around here makes it down to ground level in the woods. The dirt there is spongy from the countless inches of needles.

There’s not much else to tell. I’ve never gone in very far. I’ve never heard a bird or seen any creatures in there. It’s all trunks and shadows. If I can get a bit of gumption, I’ll try to explore further. Maybe I’ll take a bit of paper and a pencil with me and write you a letter while I’m there.

As far as Mr. Schick being disappointed in you for chewing gum, don’t beat yourself up over it. You’re right. You were only chewing gum. He’s trying to use guilt as a motivator and he has no right. He is not God. He does not sound like a worthwhile role model. He does not sound like a just judge.

Nice drawing of him, by the way.

God, I fear, is a just judge. I fear that’s why I’m stuck here. I’ve done far worse than you, Trevor. I hope you’ll never bear the shame I bear.

It’s one of the few hopes I have left.

Dad

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

I’m not 100% certain you made it in

Dear Dad,

Mr. Schick announced the starters and captain for our first soccer game. Guess what? I am NOT the team captain! And guess what again? I am NOT a starter.

I don’t blame you for not coaching me when I was younger, like you did with Steffan and Keith. You weren’t here. Not your fault, except in the sense that you smoked and then died from cancer. But Uncle Felix smokes at least two packs a day and he’s still alive and he’s way older than you. And he’s super fat, too, so by all rights he should be dead and you should be alive, smoking or not.

Here’s a question: How do I know if I have the right address on these letters? Or the right amount of postage? This will be the ninth one I sent and I have yet to get one back. I figured at least one would be sent back by the mailman by now. I keep waiting for Mom to walk all teary-eyed into my bedroom with a return-to-sender letter in my hand, asking me if I want to talk.

For your address, I’ve kept it simple. It says:

Hugh E. Griffiths, Jr., deceased.

The Afterlife

Why didn’t I address it to heaven? No offense, but I’m not 100% certain you made it in. Mom is. She says you asked Jesus into your heart and that you’re definitely there. But she says it a bit like she’s trying to convince herself. I really hope Mom doesn’t read this, because she would definitely start crying about that sentence.

I’m only using one first-class stamp, because I figure that if that’s not enough, the letter will come back with one of those insufficient postage marks on it.

I wonder, if in all the history of the world, anyone has ever tried to mail a letter to heaven. Or wherever. Or gotten a reply back.

Skip Hendrickson is the captain of our soccer team. I like Skip. Everyone likes Skip. Teachers loooove him. His dad is a doctor who did the physicals for all the team players for free, which is good because I don’t think we have medical insurance right now, because Mom’s job is kind of lame and you didn’t exactly leave us with loads of money.

Skip’s mom is the school nurse. Skip’s a straight-A student and is good at sports, but his hair looks like a Brillo pad is sitting on the top of his head, and sometimes he has a booger hanging out of his nose and no one tells him. If it was Larry Melding with the booger, he’d get pounded for it. But with Skip, people just pretend the booger isn’t there.

I guess if you’re as wonderful as Skip is, people don’t mind overlooking something like a booger.

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

Trevor’s first soccer practice

Dear Dad,

I had my first soccer practice today and guess what? Not that many kids tried out for the team and Mr. Schick said no one would be cut. That’s good news for me. He also said I have a real strong kick and would make a natural defender. I’m pretty sure that’s what he tells kids who aren’t any good, but still, it was pretty cool of him to say it to me. Honestly, only a few of the kids look any good at all and I don’t think I’m any worse than the rest of them.

He asked if I was the brother of Steffan and Keith. When I said I was, he said, “Well, if you’re half as good as either of them, it will be a pleasure to have you on the team.” I just nodded. I’m probably not half as good as either of them. He didn’t mention Rhett at all, even though he played soccer, too.

There are a lot of new kids at school this year. I guess that’s another thing that happens in junior high. There are still kids I know from sixth grade, but a bunch of other schools dump their sixth graders here, too. Like the goalie on our soccer team—he’s a new kid named Rick Jarvis. He thinks he’s some kind of superstar soccer player, but he’s only better than me because I bet he’s played on club teams. He wears one of those shiny black jackets around school and it says “Hawks” on the back in orange stitching, which is probably the name of his other stupid team. He told me he is going out with a girl named Misty Lee. She’s new, too. Is every one in seventh grade required to have a girlfriend by the end of the first week? Misty Lee is cute, I guess, in an annoying sort of way.

I had my first math homework today. A take-home test. I just finished it. It took a lot longer than I thought it would. I’m hoping it was one of those tests where they just want to see how much you know, because there was a lot of it I didn’t know at all. I’m guessing that everyone else did about as bad as me, because I was kind of a math ace in sixth grade. Were you any good at math at my age? I know you were an English major at college, but I assume you did some math in seventh grade, right?

Not that I need it, but I wish you were here to help me with my math. Anyway, time to stop writing and mail the letter. I hope I have your address right. And I hope one stamp is enough.

Your son,

Trevor

Trevor’s first day of junior high school

Dear Dad,

I went to my first day of junior high school today. The first person I saw there was my best friend, Donnie and the first thing he told me was that he was going out with some girl named Jodi. Going out? Going out where? He can’t drive.

I saw Donnie like 20 times over the summer and this did not come up once in our conversation. I spent the night at his house last Thursday and he didn’t say a thing about liking girls. Am I supposed to like girls now? The last thing I remember was chasing Desiree Hancock around the playground and trying to plant my sneaker into her big, annoying butt.

Junior High works differently than sixth grade. In sixth grade, I had one teacher all day long. Mrs. Rommel. She was annoying, but I didn’t hate her or anything. One day she wore a wig and told us she was her twin sister, even though she knew we didn’t really believe it. That was really stupid, but I didn’t hate her for it. Anyway, now I have a zillion teachers and I go to different classes all day long.

My homeroom teacher is Mr. Anders. He is really young for a teacher, but he’s already boring, so he’ll be a natural. What happened to him that he could become so boring that fast? Maybe it’s because he’s already married. He owns map vending machines all over the city. He told us that on the first day of class. Am I supposed to be impressed that he owns map vending machines? How completely boring can you get? He’s also the P.E. teacher and the history teacher, so I get to be bored by him three times every day.

I’m trying out for the boy’ soccer team. The first practice is tomorrow after school. The coach is Mr. Schick, my Bible teacher. I don’t like him much. He taught Rhonda a couple of years ago and remembered her. He actually said to me, “I had quite a lot of trouble with your sister. Hopefully I don’t have the same trouble with you.” Great. He thinks I come from a family of hoodlums. And Rhonda is totally not a hoodlum. She’s one of the nicest people I know.

Once last year when Mom was gone, I was really sick—barfing and everything. Rhonda kept mopping my forehead with a wet washcloth while I was barfing into the toilet. Not that it really helped or anything, but still, mopping someone’s head with a wet washcloth while they’re barfing is a nice thing to do. Rhonda’s downfall is that she can’t stand boring, judgmental people like Mr. Schick. I bet she totally let him have it a couple of times for just being so boring. That’s probably why he didn’t like her, because she totally let him have it.

I’m going to stop writing now and mail this letter to you. Couldn’t hurt, I figure.

Your son,

Trevor