Peter took a soiled envelope out of his coat pocket, took out the folded sheets of paper from inside. He unfolded the pages anxiously — almost, one might say, with expectation — yet it was a letter he himself had written and had read, not counting the present reading, at least half a dozen times. He read the letter cautiously, as though it contained something which, if he weren’t on his guard, might scare him half to death.
My dear son Philly,
How are you, boy? I’m getting along all right, though miss you, Phil, as you know. (I hope you know.) I feel it’s a great lack that we don’t know each other better — who closer than a father and son? — but maybe that could be changed. Why not? It struck me the other day, Phil, that if I met you on the street I might not even know you. How tall are you now? I don’t even know. What I mean is, it hurts me not to know. I want to know. I have the sense that I’m missing something — your growth — I miss not seeing you grow. It’s hard in a letter to say what I mean. And I’m afraid if I say it, it may not reach you in the way I mean it. A writer I admire says about letters that the ghosts, wherever they dwell, always drink up all the words before the letter arrives. Maybe that’s why I haven’t written you as much as I should. It’s no excuse.
Phil, I want things to be different between us, different and better. This is my idea: I’m moving back to New York, which is, as much as any place, my home — and by that token, your home too, and you’ve never even been to New York City, have you? What I’m having so much trouble saying is, I’d like you to come and live with me in the city. I’ve meant to write this letter at least a dozen times before, but something always seemed to go wrong at the time — and I was moving around so much. It’s no excuse. I plead innocence, and acknowledge my guilt. It was not a failure of intention, Phil — believe me — but of opportunity. Will you forgive me? I’d like very much for you to come and stay with me in New York, but if not — after all, your grandparents have brought you up, you may have ties in Ohio that are important to you — I would understand, and not love you any less for your decision. I promise you that, word of honor. But Philly, listen, come to New York for a visit (no strings attached), and let’s see how things go. My idea is to rent a place with a room set aside for you, so that whenever you want to visit (if you want to), you’ll have your own room. But come only if you want to. No obligations, Phil. The hell with obligations.
There are things I want to tell you about which are hard to explain in a letter. One does what one has to do. I can’t explain. If I had these years to do over again they would be different, I tell myself, but in all likelihood I would do most of the same things again. And regret them again. In my spare time, Phil, I’ve been working on a kind of travel book about the United States, a journal of what’s happened to me, where I’ve been, what I’ve seen. If it’s ever published, it’s to be dedicated to you. What I mean is, Philly, it’s written for you. God knows, I haven’t given you much up to now. Things will be different, I keep saying. Don’t count on it, but they will.
Are you okay? In good health and all that? What are you studying? What are you interested in? I’d like to get you some books, but I don’t know what you like. Tell me. When I was your age, Ring Lardner (I think) was my favorite author. Have you ever read “Alibi Ike”?
So tell me more about your interests. But write not out of obligation, only if you feel like it. No obligations between us; I was a son once myself. (Still am, if you ask my father — your other grandfather.) Which reminds me — extend my regards to Mr. and Mrs. Van Wilhite, who are fine people. Give them my best.
And Philly, come to New York for a visit (a month, a year, as long as you like — just let me know a little in advance). Whatever its drawbacks, New York’s a great city. That’s why I’ve been away for fifteen years. One has to earn the right to return. Or return to earn the right. Maybe, after all — you take yourself wherever you go — all places are the same. Still, I think of New York as my home. And your home. To be alone anywhere, even in the place you were born and grew up, is not to be home.
My best wishes to all.
Your loving father,
And that was it: he had spent hours composing it, trying to strike the right tone, fatherly yet friendly, then writing it finally in his own voice as if he were talking directly to the boy. He couldn’t send it. It was full of evasions, half-truths, sentimental posturing. The boy (who was he, anyway?) would probably laugh at it, or be ashamed that his father (some father!) was such a jerk.
“Bad news?” the old man next to him asked, clucking with malicious sympathy. “I been there myself. Believe me.” The sky his witness.
Peter growled, his annoyance wordless. The man staggered up, making sounds to himself, and wandered, bowed, bow-legged, to another (more congenial) bench. Immediately, Peter was sorry — remorse the plague of his spirit. What right had he to be unpleasant to the old man who, like a child, only wanted attention, a little love — like anyone else, damn him!
Peter looked at the folded sheets of paper in his hand — he knew the letter almost by heart (what other way to know it?) — and decided — a penance for the old man — to take the risk of sending it. As a precaution against changing his mind, Peter rushed off to mail the letter — nodding at the old man as he passed him — with the secret exhilaration of a suicide plunging off a roof. Predictably, as soon as the letter had been lost to the mail box, caught in the underground process of its machinery, he had regrets. Among other causes for concern, he didn’t have a job (or promise of one), he didn’t have a place (still living in a flea bag of a hotel), and his money, what remained of it, would last him, with extreme care, he judged, at most another month. So much for his promises to the boy! And the book, the travel book he had bragged about in his letter (the one already dedicated to his son), existed only as a collection of notes — the passion of the moment of observation eroded by time and distance. To date he had written only one permanent sentence, had rewritten it several times, had polished it to a fine glow, and as a consequence was concerned that if he went on writing, it would inevitably be a falling off. Still, he told himself, he intended when he got the chance (evasion of evasions) to finish the book, to begin the actual writing — the book already written, already dedicated, somewhere inside of him, the trick being to find out where.
So what would he do with him if the boy actually decided to pay him a visit? It was a problem. Yet when he thought about it in cold February logic (the wind lashing his teeth) he couldn’t believe that this boy, his son, would want to come and live with him — why should he? — his father a stranger, a man of no account. Seated among the old men in the park, Peter suffered his son’s rejection as if his conjecture, the vision of his logic, were an irretrievable fact. And then — a man who needed a son — he hoped (having no hope) that Philly would accept the invitation to visit. The old anxiety like a frozen hand fixed itself in his chest. When you wanted something — one of the continuous lessons of his life — you run the risk of loss. Anyway, what could a bum lose he didn’t already not own? He could afford a few more risks — why not? As it was, the world risked your life every day without even asking you. And he was only forty, a slow starter. Plenty of time. Since Rachel’s death — it was curious how little he remembered of her — he had taken a minimum of chances, and for all his caution was still a loser, only lost less. He still had his health, though a chronic cough haunted his chest, occasional headaches worried him, he had trouble sleeping (his dreams taunting the failure of his life), he felt faint sometimes (shaken by blackness); otherwise he was fine.