If I haven’t turned up by the time you receive this, send out the St. Bernard with a cask of Wild Turkey.
Take care,
Will
He addressed the envelope, licked the flap, sealed it, stamped it, felt and admired the heavy creamy embossed stationery, which Marion had given him and which he had never used. Why was it no longer possible to sit at a desk and write a proper letter like a character in an old-fashioned novel who as a matter of course might write any number of such letters to friends, members of family? If his daughter should receive such a letter from him, or he from her, each would faint.
It is only possible to write a letter now, he reflected, if it is part of a larger plan which could settle things once and for all, for himself, his daughter — and everyone else, for that matter.
The second letter was addressed, on a larger envelope, to Dr. Sutter Vaught, 2203 Los Floras Boulevard, Albuquerque, New Mexico.
Dear Sutter,
I have a favor to ask of you. One reason I ask you is that there is no one else I would trust to do it. Another reason is that the nature of the favor is such that, though somewhat burdensome, I am confident you will grant it.
Knowing you perhaps better than you think, I have reason to believe that aside from the urgency of my appeal it is the very strangeness of my request which will insure its being carried out.
You told me once that nowadays no one knew anything with sufficient certitude that he could tell anyone anything, and that if a man ever came along who really knew and could speak with authority — do this, do that — millions would follow him.
I tell you, not millions, to do this one thing for me. I do not ask you, I tell you: do this.
I am enclosing a stamped sealed envelope addressed to one Lewis Peckham of Linwood, North Carolina. Do this. After you receive this letter, wait three weeks. If by this time you have not heard to the contrary from me, proceed as follows: Come to Linwood, North Carolina. Go to the post office, fold and soil the letter to Lewis Peckham, and drop it in the mail slot marked “local.” It will be assumed by the addressee that the letter was mislaid by a postal employee, dropped behind a radiator, kicked under a table, belatedly discovered, sneaked into the “local” bin by the guilty clerk, and so belatedly postmarked. It will be assumed by the postal authorities, should it come to this, that the letter was dropped inadvertently outside the post office, discovered, and mailed by some helpful soul.
After you do this, leave town immediately and say nothing of this to anyone.
Be assured that you are not being asked to become a party to a fraud or worse crime.
This is a good deal of trouble, I realize, to get from Albuquerque to Linwood, North Carolina, without a car, since you did not replace your Edsel, but I am confident that you will do it. Please believe me when I tell you that it is absolutely necessary that you do this, that you destroy this letter and that you never speak of this matter again.
Of course it may come to pass that you will hear from me before the deadline, in which case your mission is to be abandoned. In this event, I shall explain further.
Perhaps I owe you some explanation of this unusual request. I shall give you a partial one, at the risk of offending and alarming you. But at least you will see that no harm can come to anyone but me, and possibly not even to me, but that there is nothing you can do to prevent it in any case — and that a great good may come to many people.
If you do not hear from me in three weeks I shall be dead by the time Lewis Peckham receives the letter you will mail in Linwood. There is nothing you can do to prevent this. In fact, the only chance of preventing it will depend upon your carrying out these instructions to the letter. If you will recall, I once performed a similar service for you.
The purpose of the delayed mailing is to make sure that my body will be found and found under such circumstances as to preclude suicide and the nonpayment of my life insurance.
Fraud is not involved — though a case for it would undoubtedly be made by the insurance company, since a payment of one million is involved. Under the law, life insurance must be paid in the event of death by natural causes, accidents, or acts of God. My death, if it occurs, shall occur not by my own hand but by the hand of God. Or rather the handlessness or inaction of God.
If I die, it will not be by my own hand but through the dereliction of another. It is not my intention to die but to live. Therefore, should I die, it will not be suicide.
This is what you might call the ultimate scientific experiment in contrast to dreary age-old philosophical and religious disputations which have no resolution. I say “ultimate” because God is the subject under investigation.
I aim to settle the question of God once and for all.
The Prudential Life Insurance Company quite properly did not pay me, the beneficiary of my father’s policy, since he died by his own hand. I freely acknowledge this, even though I was sole beneficiary and could have used the money. Nevertheless I feel euchred out of that million. He paid for it and I could have used it. Without it, his death made no sense.
But in my case, if I die, it will be God or the absence of God which is responsible. Neither God nor the absence of God are listed as causes of death in my Prudential policy. Nor are they listed as the causes of suicide. Therefore the policy must be paid to my beneficiary, and my claim is not fraudulent.
The Rock will pay because the law requires it. The purpose of my request to you is to insure that the law not be circumvented.
It is not in your interest to know what I plan to do. Suffice it to say that for once in my life I know what is what, what I know, what I don’t know, what needs to be done, and what I shall do. If you remember, it was your constant complaint that I was forever looking to you for “all the answers.” However much you find yourself inconvenienced by this request, it should at least please you to know that I have at last understood you. One must arrive at one’s own answers.
I may not know the answer, but I know the question. And I know how to put the question so that it must be answered. So certain am I of my own course of action that I do not require your approval. What I require from you is that you do what I say, and I charge you to do so on the pain of having my death on your conscience.
I will say only that the action I propose to take comes as a consequence of my belated recognition of my lifelong dependency on this or that person, like my father or yourself (who I supposed knew more than I did) or on this or that book or theory like Dr. Freud’s (which I thought might hold the Great Secret of Life, as if there were such a thing). My equally belated discovery is the total failure, recklessness, and assholedness of people in general and in particular just those people I had looked to. This includes you. Maybe you most of all — for it was you, it seemed to me — if you recall, I had good detection devices, excellent radar for knowing who knew what — it was you of all the pleasant prosperous gregarious denizens of our dear old Southland (to say nothing of the even more fucked-up remainder of the U.S.A.) who seemed to be on to something.
My father seemed to know what was what and ended up distributing his brain cells over the attic — after trying to take me with him.
Perhaps he was right. I aim to find out. I have found out how to find out.
You seemed to know what was what and you end up how? Marking time with the V.A. and watching M*A*S*H. Toward what end? So you can retire on your pension and watch the soaps all day?
Quite properly, you refused to give me any answers. Perhaps you didn’t have any. It doesn’t matter now. But I have a question and a way of asking it which requires an answer. A non-answer is not possible. But this does not concern you.