DISPATCH

by Bentley Little

And there was a letter from Kyoko waiting for me in my mailbox.

  This time I opened it, read it:

  Dear Jason,

  It was wonderful to see you again, and I can’t wait to get together! Did I surprise you? I hope so! How do you think I look? My breasts may not be as big as American women’s, but I can assure you I know how to use what I’ve got. I’ve been saving myself for you. I knew you would come here eventually. You didn’t save yourself for me, but I forgive you for that. If I ever catch that bitch Vicki, though…

  Just kidding! (Not really!)

  I know you have letters to write. I do, too. Keep in touch. I’ll see you soon.

  Love,

  Your Dearest Kyoko

  This was impossible. I’d left the theater ten minutes ago, yet Kyoko’s letter was here, having been delivered with the rest of my mail earlier in the day. There was even a postmark on the envelope.

  Besides, was this really Kyoko? The writing here was flawless, but she spoke broken English, and it was hard to imagine that this letter came from the same person to whom I’d spoken. I knew it did, though. Letter writing was a language to itself, and I had no doubt that there were Letter Writers who were grunting, inarticulate dolts but could compose correspondence that would make a nun drop her drawers. It was an ability or a talent that seemed to exist independently of anything else, and I thought of a story I’d read in high school where a scientist discovered that even the stupidest people had elaborate dreams as complex and fully realized as the smartest philosopher.

  I reread the letter several times before going to bed.

  I had a hard time sleeping.

  The next day, she sent me two letters. One was covered with Hello Kitty stickers. The other envelope had a piece of Japanese Fusen gum inside. What were we, ten? The letters themselves were much more adult and were fairly explicit about what she wanted from me, although they were by no means as blunt as the secret-admirer letters.

  The next morning, on my way to work, I saw her following me. She remained a car length behind, but I could see her clearly through the wide windshield of her Corvette, and it occurred to me that I’d seen that car before around town, in front of my house.

  When I was at lunch, she left a note on my desk describing the graphic details of a sex dream she’d had the night before.

  I didn’t know what to do.

  Maybe I could get her fired.

  Yes! That would be perfect.

  I had no idea how to go about it, and I considered just making something up, lying in a letter that I sent to her supervisor or even the CEO of the company—

  the Ultimate Letter Writer

  —but she was an employee here, too, and that might backfire. She worked on a higher floor, and for all I knew, that meant she was more senior and higher in rank than I was.

  Virginia would know what to do. She’d be able to help me. She’d been here a long time, she knew everyone who was anyone, and she genuinely seemed to like me. If anybody could help figure out a way to get Kyoko out of here it would be her.

  I wasn’t sure I’d be allowed to just pop up and visit the tenth floor, so I walked across the corridor, knocked on Henry’s door and went into his office. I ended up telling him the whole story, and though he professed to find it unbelievable, he did not doubt that I was telling the truth.

  “I have an idea,” he said.

  “Shoot,” I told him. At this point, I was open to any suggestion.

  “Kill her.”

  I blinked, stared at him. He still wore the friendly passive expression that he always had, and even his eyes appeared warm and kind.

  “Go ahead and talk to Virginia, if you want. Talk to anybody you think will help. Get as many thoughts and ideas as you can. But looking at it from where I sit, I don’t see any other way out. Even if she lost her job, she wouldn’t necessarily move. She might be able to continue plaguing you for… forever. So if you don’t want to get together and she does so desperately, either you’re going to have to put up with an eternity of harassment or one of you is going to have to go.”

  “The company would have one less Letter Writer.” I couldn’t believe I was playing devil’s advocate to his lunatic suggestion. He couldn’t be serious.

  Could he?

  “Sometimes,” Henry said slowly, “an ideal is more important than an individual. Do you think all of the Letter Writers throughout history who were martyred or persecuted wanted it to be that way? Do you think those men scribbling away within the Bastille, not knowing whether their words would ever be read, let alone published, desired that existence? No. Letter writing is a cause and a calling that is bigger than ourselves. We did not choose this life, we may have had it thrust on us, but it is our duty to rise to the challenge, to pave the way for the future. To make the future.”

  It was a memorized speech but not delivered by rote. He spoke passionately, with feeling.

  “I think killing her’s your only choice.”

  “But isn’t that… a sin?”

  He laughed. “You’ve done it before. We all have.”

  He was right. I was already a murderer several times over.

  I nodded, pretended to agree and muttered some generic comments as a way of excusing myself. I was frightened by the turn this conversation had taken, and I wanted to go back into my little record store office and look at music posters and hide.

  I’d talk to Virginia some other time, I decided as I made my way back across the corridor. For the moment, I’d just avoid Kyoko as much as I could and play her off when I ran into her.

  I returned to my office and spent the rest of the day writing nontaxing letters about music to Rolling Stone and Vibe and Spin.

  “That’s freaky,” Stan said, and Shamus nodded in agreement. The three of us were on the sidewalk outside the building, getting ready to trek through the parking lot to find our individual cars.

  “Yeah,” I said glumly. I’d just finished telling them about Kyoko but hadn’t mentioned my conversation with Henry. I found it hard to believe it had even happened.

  Shamus looked around at the other departing Letter Writers. “Is she here? Do you see her?”

  “I’m not looking,” I admitted. “I don’t want to accidentally make eye contact. She’d take that as a come-on.”

  “Could I hit on her? Hey, maybe if I distracted her, gave her what she needed, she’d leave you alone.”

  “Go ahead,” I offered. “Be my guest.”

  “She might be waiting for you at home,” Stan said seriously. “Maybe in your bed.”

  The thought had occurred to me.

  “You want me to come to your house? Or you want to crash at mine tonight?”

  “Running away just because you’re offered a little strange? Dude!”

  We both looked at Shamus, and he shut up, embarrassed.

  “No,” I said, resigned. “It’s my problem. I have to learn to deal with it.”

  “Well, good luck,” Stan said. “You have my number. Call me if you need me.”

  “Me, too,” Shamus declared.

  We said good-bye and started off toward our respective cars, me on the lookout for a lurking Kyoko crouching down behind one of the parked sedans, vans or SUVs.

  “At least it’s keeping your mind off the witch!” Stan shouted, waving.

  I held up my middle finger to show him what I thought of his humor and walked over to my car, unlocking the door. She wasn’t hiding in the backseat, so that first hurdle was jumped. I quickly got in, pressed the automatic door lock button and started the engine.

  I saw her on my way home.

  She was standing on the corner of Brea Boulevard and Imperial Highway, in front of a gas station, waving at me as though I were in a parade and she one of the spectators lining the route. She’d changed her clothes, and she had on a short tight skirt and a midriff-revealing top. I was supposed to be turned on, I guess, and she did look sexy, but it was in a slutty, trashy way that made me even more determined to stay as
far as possible from her.

  I sped home, knowing she would not be able to beat me there now. I parked the car, ran into the condo, closed and locked the front door and made sure everything was sealed up tight.

  Impossibly, Kyoko was on my television that evening. I had just watched a comedy on HBO in an attempt to escape from my real life, and when I switched the channel to watch NBC’s local newscast, Kyoko was there. I don’t know if she’d somehow gotten someone to intercept the signal or if this intrusion was sanctioned by the powers that be, but her pretty face filled the screen, and though there was no sound, she kept mouthing the words, “I love you. I love you. I love you…”

  I switched off the television.

  I dreamed that night that I was lying in bed and Kyoko, naked and beautiful, sat on my face. But she smelled of ass rather than pussy, and when I tried to get up, tried to squirm out from under her, I couldn’t. I was unable to breathe, I was choking to death, and I tried to push her off me, but my hands kept sinking into her skin as though she were made of clay, and the weight of her body kept increasing, pressing over my mouth and nose, cutting off my supply of air.

  I awoke just before I died.

  3

  The witch was gone. Had I written her out of existence?

  Could I write Kyoko away, too?

  I thought about it. The idea was worth a try, I decided, and I sat down and penned a series of letters from various points of view to various recipients, working at my highest and most inspired level, concocting reasons why she should be fired from the company, why she needed to be removed from the presence of other Letter Writers. The reasons were real and fake: because she was a psychotic stalker, because she was an incompetent letter writer. I used every arrow in my arsenal, and I sent all of the correspondence off at once, hoping that perhaps sheer bulk would be impressive enough to get my point across.

  There she was the next day, standing in front of my office when I arrived, holding an elaborately wrapped present, which she gave to me along with an unwelcome kiss. I refused the present, angrily sent it back with her and watched with a sort of grim satisfaction as she dashed to the elevator in tears.

  I wrote more letters.

  The following day, she sent me a formal note of apology for the present, then plopped herself down next to me at lunch. None of my friends knew what to do or how to react. All conversation stopped, and Stan suggested tersely that it would be better if she left. Shamus, as promised, tried to hit on her, but she shot him down in cute broken English that charmed even Ellen. Kyoko snuggled next to me, pressing her bare leg against mine under the table, and I stood, leaving the rest of my lunch and excusing myself as I returned to my office. According to Stan, she spent the rest of the hour talking about me.

  I wrote more letters.

  The day after that, I found a long black hair on the soap in my shower. And a pair of women’s panties mixed in with the clothes in my hamper when I sorted through everything to do the laundry. In my mailbox was a naked picture of her, a recreation of her original photo that she’d taken by herself in my bathroom.

  That was the last straw.

  I had to kill the bitch.

  I tried to unthink that thought but failed. I recalled my conversation with Henry.

  I think killing her’s your only choice.

  No. I couldn’t do that.

  Although I’d done it before, through letters, and the truth was that if I could get rid of her that way, I would—without feeling any guilt or remorse. Hell, I’d be overjoyed if she keeled over right this second and never darkened my pathway again. But it was one thing to be morally liable for the death of a person, and it was quite another to perform the actual deed. That was why presidents responsible for the deaths of hundreds of innocent civilians in war actions slept like babies at night, while an individual who had too much to drink and accidentally killed a pedestrian would be wracked with guilt for the rest of his life.

  Isn’t that a sin? I’d asked Henry about killing another Letter Writer.

  A sin. Why had I used that terminology? It certainly wasn’t the way I usually spoke or thought.

  I thought of my dream of Christ’s rotting body.

  God was dead. There was no sin.

  Yes, I decided. I would murder her.

  I read the letter accompanying her photo:

  Dear Jason,

  I wrote a letter to Eric today. I told him all about us. I told him I knew you way before Vicki did and that I not only loved you first, I loved you more. I told him that we were together now and we were going to have our own son, a son you’d love far more than you loved him.

  It hurts sometimes to tell the truth, but it is always the best way to go. It is better to get the pain over now, quickly, than stretch it out.

  I had another dream about you last night. I was sitting on the toilet and you were standing in front of me, dangling it in my face. I couldn’t resist the temptation, and I opened my mouth and took you all the way in and worked on you until you finished.

  I always dream about us in the bathroom. I think it is because that is where I took that picture of myself. Do you still have it? I have thought of you every day since. I wrote the letter that killed my father because of it. I drove my mother away because of it. I am here because of it.

  And now we are together once more. And Vicki and Eric and the whole world know! Nothing can come between us ever again!

  Love always and forever,

  Kyoko

  Enraged, I tore the letter into little pieces, flinging the pieces furiously across the room as hard as I could, only to watch them fall and flutter hopelessly to the ground a foot or so away from me. She dared to write to my son? Filling his head with who knew what lies and psychotic half-truths? I would have beaten her head against the wall if I’d had her before me at that moment. My only consolation was that maybe he wouldn’t receive the letter. I still wrote to my wife and son every day, and I had yet to hear back from them, so maybe our personal correspondence wasn’t being delivered. Even if her letter did reach him, though, Vicki would intercept it first. She’d read it, and she might very well believe it, but she wouldn’t pass it on to Eric. Of that I was sure. She would keep that information from him.

  I looked at the little scraps of letter on the ground. At least I’d had the presence of mind not to tear up the envelope. It had Kyoko’s address on it.

  I was going to need that.

  I drove to her house after dark.

  She lived not in our gated community but in a Japanese section of the city. It was a mishmash of various styles and eras, architectures of East and West coexisting side by side. Despite the pagoda roofs, though, despite the neon signs in Japanese and the bonsai gardens in front of the low simple homes, everything seemed just a little too meticulously detailed, a little too thoroughly thought out. And of course, the streets were strangely empty. Cars were parked along the sides of the streets but not moving, and it was only the blinking of the lights and the presence of random noise from unseen sources that made it seem populated at all.

  I drove past Kyoko’s house, then parked two doors up.

  I was glad she did not live in an apartment or condo, though I had plans for taking care of her if that were the case, as well. But a house was much easier, would allow me to enter and leave much more quickly, and I remained in my car, slumped in the front seat while I waited to see if anyone else drove by.

  The streets were deserted, as were the sidewalks, and finally I opened the car door and stepped out. The air here smelled different, at once smoggier and more fragrant than it did in my neighborhood, as though a fleet of buses were idling next to a field of flowers, and I wondered if her city in Japan smelled like that. I’d probably never find out.

  She definitely would not smell it again.

  Because tonight she was going to die.

  I felt no qualms as I walked up the sidewalk, opened the small gate in front of her house and stepped on the series of inset stones that led ac
ross the moss-covered ground to her door. A front window was open, the light on inside, and I could hear noise from within. I paused. She was listening to music. Not music on the radio or TV, but music from a record or CD. And I recognized it instantly.

  the crack in the bell. Daniel Lentz.

  Daniel Lentz was our composer, Vicki’s and mine. Hearing his music issue from Kyoko’s stereo was like a slap in the face and in a way seemed more an invasion of my privacy than even breaking into my house had. She was not trespassing upon physical space here; she was stomping on my memories and my intimate life with Vicki.

  And why was she allowed to have her own music when I wasn’t? Especially since her music was my music. My CDs and records had been taken from me. It was another layer of insult, and it gave me the strength to pound on the front door. “Kyoko!” I called, feigning friendliness, hoping my anger wasn’t evident from my voice. “It’s me! Jason!”

  The door flew open. “I know you come!” she said in her thickly accented English. She was dressed not as though she’d planned to spend a quiet evening at home but as though she’d planned to go club hopping and was not intending to return alone.

  There was no one on the street as far as I knew, but I still felt far too conspicuous standing on her stoop like this, knowing what I intended to do. “Could I come in?” I asked. “I’d like to talk to you.”

  She seemed disappointed, her face falling, matching the petulant tone of her voice. “Just talk?”

  “More,” I promised. My palms were sweaty.

  She brightened instantly, smiling. “I want more, too. Sex. You want sex?”

  This was dragging on interminably! I risked a look backward, saw no one, nothing unusual in the darkness. “Yes,” I promised. “Sex.”

  Kyoko grabbed my hand, pulled me in. Her fingers were soft but firm. She closed the door behind us, then immediately reached for my belt. I slapped her hand away. She looked up at me, surprised and hurt. “You say you want sex.”