I stopped and read what I’d typed. It might be a touch aggressive, I allowed. I tore it out, wadded it up, and threw it across the room.
The seconds I should have used to reconsider such a foolish outburst I spent instead rolling in another blank sheet. Then I did stop, for the first faint thoughts of a more appropriate response were beginning to flit around my cranky brain. No, my wise self said, to what I was thinking. Yes, the caffeine countered. The caffeine won, and popped me out of the chair to rootle in the pile of unanswered reader letters. After a few minutes, I found one that made me laugh most inappropriately, wired as I was by the coffee, and the rage.
“Dear Honestly Dearest,” it began, “I was a virgin when I married at fifty-six. My husband is a sweet man, four years older, but he was in the navy for forty years, and complains that our sex life is boring because I only like what he calls the mission position. What should a proper girl do? Rigid in Dubuque.”
It wasn’t funny. It had been written by a woman with a real problem. On the other hand, Charles, the whining editor, wasn’t funny either, and neither had anything else been since I started digging through the few remains of Louise Thomas’s life.
I took another sip of coffee to keep the jitters dancing and began typing: “Honestly, Dearest, you can be proper and a bit naughty, too. Gourmet chefs will tell you that spice adds flavor to even the oldest meat. Get your sweet self down to the hardware store and buy a couple of eye bolts and one of those child’s swings, the kind that has chains and a strap seat to cradle your loving derriere. Hire a handyman to attach it to the bedroom ceiling. And let love be love! P.S.: When sailor hubby asks how you know of such things, look away and smile enigmatically, a Mona Lisa with her memories. Swingingly, Honestly Dearest.”
I’d read enough of Carolina’s columns to believe I’d captured her tone. My words, though, were sophomoric and stupid, chosen not to advise but to trigger a few palpitations in Charles’s chest. I laughed for the first time in days, imagining the horror on his face as he read the faked column. I drank more coffee and rootled again in the unanswered mail.
“Dear Honestly Dearest,” the letter from Sioux Falls, South Dakota, started. “My sister-in-law, ‘Gladys,’ who lives in another state, comes to visit every year, as we go to visit her as well. She’s just gotten an older miniature schnauzer from the pound, ‘Oofhausen.’ Since her husband expired several years ago, we like that she has company when she’s not with us. The problem is that Oofhausen thinks he’s a cat, and marks his territory everywhere inside our house. During their last visit, Oofy puddled the living room carpet twice, wet the dining room oriental rug in all four corners, and sprayed our fish tank, fireplace screen, and antique map stand. When I mentioned these occurrences to Gladys, she just giggled and said, ‘Older boys do lose their arc, you know,’ as though it was only his aim that was off. My husband doesn’t want to say anything to his sister, but since we are about to visit her, I feel I must use the opportunity to tell her how I feel. Am I right? Snorkling in Sioux Falls.”
“Honestly, Dearest,” I typed, on fire now. “Of course, honesty is usually the best policy, but it sounds like you’ve hinted at the problem enough for her to get the point. Short of grabbing her by the back of the head and rubbing her nose in Oofy’s aquatic aftermaths, consider an alternative. Before setting off to see Gladys, phone around her town for the name of an agency that will loan or rent you a St. Bernard for an afternoon. Bring the pooch-call him ‘Gaseous,’ for extra impact-with you when you arrive at her place. As you lead him inside, mention to Gladys that Gaseous is prone to intestinal challenges, and that you hope it won’t be a problem. Then, in the kitchen, produce a dog bowl and the quarts of chili you also picked up on the way. As you’re filling Gaseous’s bowl, ask Gladys if she’s got any Lousiana Hot Sauce, explaining that Gaseous is especially fond of spicy things, though it does increase his discomfort. That ought to do it. Assuming Gladys has not fainted, smile sweetly and offer to put Gaseous up in a kennel, if she would prefer. She’ll prefer, in a heartbeat, and more importantly, she’ll get the point. Dryly Yours, Honestly Dearest.”
Cackling as crazily as a loon, I had to open a dozen more envelopes before I found another letter that was bound to offend. “Dear Honestly Dearest, My problem is my college roommate, ‘Marco.’ He says he’s devoutly religious, but he prays to a carrot, ‘Hector the Carrot God,’ that he’s suspended from the ceiling. Sometimes he chants for hours. I want to respect his religious views, but I’m afraid the other guys on our floor are going to think I’m strange, too. Concerned in Champaign.”
I thought for a minute, sipped more coffee, and wrote, “Honestly, Dearest. Eat the carrot. Munchingly Yours, Honestly Dearest.”
At ten o’clock, I made what I swore would be the last pot of coffee and rootled again. The letter was perfection: “Dear Honestly Dearest, I’ll admit I have not lived a perfect life. For the past ten years, I’ve entertained as a clothing-diminished dancer. A gentleman customer, ‘Richard,’ wants to marry me. He is seventy-four and the man of my dreams, and has asked nothing of me (well… almost nothing, if you catch my drift, because little works, if you catch my drift) other than, before we get married, he would like me to have removed the names of my former husbands that are tattooed on the inside of one thigh. As he is quite wealthy, he has offered to pay for the procedure. I don’t want to upset him before the wedding-he is not in the best health-but am wondering if he is bargaining for more than he should. The tattoos are small, almost unreadable since I put on weight, and there are only six of them. Nervous Bride in Tulsa.”
“Honestly, Dearest,” I wrote, “the finest business schools in the country teach one thing over and over: Cost-Benefit Analysis. What’s it going to cost you, and what are you going to get? Sounds like you’ve already been to Harvard, honey. Assuming there’s no outlandish prenup, what’s a little lasering when so much more will be gained? Lose the ‘toos. Yours for a Clean Slate, Honestly Dearest.”
So it went, me pounding on the old Underwood, overcaffeinated, demented, and giggling. It was catharsis, and it was working.
At one in the morning, the last of the caffeine had vaporized, the giggles were gone. Only a picture of Carolina, alone, frozen, anonymous, and dead, now filled my mind. I’d typed eighteen responses, each crude and ridiculous, each aimed to cause discomfort in Charles, my audience of one.
There was one last letter to write. For that, I had to make up both parts.
“Dear Honestly Dearest, I am the editor of a greasy grocery store tabloid that’s best used to blot up hamster droppings. I have an advice columnist, an easily bullied woman whom I’ve tormented for years. She’s suddenly stopped sending in new material. What should I do? Charles.”
I leaned back, massaged fingers that were throbbing from punching round metal keys all night, then bent to type the response: “Honestly Dearest, Charles, you kill me. OK, maybe it wasn’t you, but it was someone else who gave less than a damn about me. Now I am dead. Terminally, Honestly Dearest.”
Black stuff for an ending. No grace, no humor. Later, when I felt kinder, I’d have to send him a proper letter, if only to find out Carolina’s last name, but this wasn’t the night. I put all the responses in a big envelope, addressed it to New Jersey, stuck it with only one stamp, and took it out to my mailbox. Some would say I’d wasted the night. As I raised the red flag, I told myself I’d come to my senses in the morning and retrieve the envelope. For now, though, it was the best repository for my rage, and best left in the cold.
I went back inside, turned off the space heater, and climbed up to my bed on the third floor. I never sleep well. I’m grateful when I can manage three uninterrupted hours, and those come only after I’ve spent at least an hour categorizing dilemmas, past, present, and most certainly future.