The Letter

by Marie Tillman

  I landed in Charleston Friday evening, took a car to his place, and tried to make myself presentable after the flight while he greeted his guests. I came out from the back bedroom and wandered over to the bar to get a drink. Glass of wine in hand, I was checking out the small crowd when a tall, younger guy with a mop of dark hair came over to me.

  “Hi, I’m John,” he said.

  “Hey, nice to meet you. I’m Marie.”

  “I think we have a friend in common,” he said.

  My heartbeat sped up. “We do?”

  “Yeah, Brian Shaw.”

  “Oh,” I said, trying to sound light and casual. “Sure, I know Brian.” Inside, I was terrified. Brian had been one of Pat’s trainers in college. How did this guy know who I was? How did he know the connection? I felt totally exposed and suddenly became incredibly self-conscious. Was John going to tell Brian I was seeing J.P.? Did Brian already know? Did other people know? What about Pat’s family? What if they found out? I had carefully guarded this relationship so far, telling myself it was not going to go anywhere serious, so why upset everyone?

  I wanted to run away from John as fast as possible, but instead I chatted brightly and tried to turn the subject away from our common friend. The rest of the night was miserable. I tried to maintain a calm exterior, but I was frantic inside, realizing the carefully constructed facade that I had created was starting to crumble. After the last guest had left, J.P. sat down on the couch beside me. I was normally chatty and engaging, but that night I couldn’t put the energy into starting a conversation.

  “You seem quiet tonight. Are you okay?” he asked. It was the perfect opportunity to open up to him, to explain what I was going through.

  “Just tired,” I said, and asked him how he felt the party had gone. We chatted casually for a while, then went to bed.

  I’d been finding it difficult to concentrate on work lately, and things were falling through the cracks. I didn’t want to get any further behind, so the afternoon after the party, I sat at J.P.’s kitchen counter with my laptop, trying to catch up. I quickly surveyed my email, responding to the most pressing issues. My phone buzzed and I saw it was Dannie. I stared at it for a moment. Had she heard from Brian? Did she know? I shook off the thought, realizing I was being crazy. J.P. was down the hall in his office, doing some work of his own, but I didn’t feel like I could talk to Dannie while he was in earshot. I picked up the phone and opened the back patio door so I could talk freely outside. Beyond the covered patio, past an expanse of perfectly maintained lawn, were a few steps leading to another patio. I walked across the lawn and sat down on the steps.

  “Hey there,” Dannie said warmly. “How are you? Where are you?”

  “I’m good,” I said. “I’m in Charleston for a few days.” Since starting my job at ESPN, I’d traveled constantly, and my friends and family back home really didn’t know what I was up to, and no longer asked. They would probe a little bit about what my life was like, but I’d answer in vague terms, and after several rounds of this, they settled with the fact that I was working a lot and keeping myself busy. So when I told Dannie I was in Charleston, this half-truth didn’t solicit any follow-up questions. She assumed it was work-related and went on to explain why she had called.

  “I’m working on my book and I wanted to share a section with you,” she said. She’d decided to write about her pursuit of justice amid the fratricide cover-up. I thought the book would be a great thing for her, and I could tell she was excited. I wanted to be supportive.

  “Great, go ahead,” I said.

  She started to read, to describe sitting in front of her house, watching the glow from her fire pit and thinking about Pat. She wrote about feeling crippling loss, about feeling exposed. I had spent many nights by that fire pit in front of her house, watching Pat goof around with his brothers, or just talking to him, and we’d even had our rehearsal dinner near that fire pit. It was the place Pat’s closest family and friends had congregated right after he’d died. The memories, close to the surface, broke through. Tears welled up in my eyes and silently spilled over and down my cheeks. What she had written was beautiful, her pain of the loss of Pat eloquently voiced, her agony clear. When she finished, I told her how moving I thought it was, and marveled at her ability to express her feelings when I was still struggling with my own. I, too, had started writing after Pat died, in an attempt to free some of the emotion that suffocated me. But unlike Dannie’s, my words came out in a jumbled mess, long pages of stream of consciousness that made little sense. We hung up the phone and I sat for a few minutes, looking back at J.P.’s enormous house, conflicted. Dannie was so open, so trusting in her willingness to share her writing. I felt like I was lying to her by not sharing this new part of my life. I wondered if J.P. could see me sitting here in the yard, silently crying.

  I couldn’t help wondering what would happen if I let J.P. see me, if I exposed this side. From our initial meeting until then, I had kept my life compartmentalized. We never spoke about Pat, or about the fratricide investigations. I never let my two worlds collide. I felt it was not something he wanted to discuss, but neither did I. I wanted things to stay light and fun and at the surface. I wasn’t ready to have someone in my life, really in the deep dark recesses of it.

  I wiped my eyes and took a few deep breaths. When I walked back into the kitchen, J.P. was poking around in the refrigerator. “Want to go get some lunch?” he asked cheerily.

  “Sure!” I beamed back.

  * * *

  “What is your problem?” Christine asked me over the phone the next week.

  “What are you talking about?” I had just confided in her about running into John at the party in Charleston and fearing that word had gotten out.

  “Do you really think Pat’s family would be upset? You know they want you to be happy.”

  “I know,” I said, and I did. “I don’t know, I guess I just feel guilty. Like I shouldn’t be with someone else. You know? It’s like I have this voice inside my head telling me it’s too soon.”

  “Marie,” Christine said, gentler now. “You’re being way too hard on yourself. What advice would you give a friend going through this? Would you tell her she should wait ten years?”

  “No, of course not,” I said. “But I don’t know what the appropriate time is—it’s not like there’s a rule manual for this stuff.”

  “Fair enough,” Christine said, “but what would you tell her?”

  “To go easy on herself,” I said.

  “Well?”

  My sister was right, and it meant more coming from her than from almost anyone, since I knew what Pat had meant to her. But words alone couldn’t change things. I didn’t think I could all of a sudden start being gentle with myself. I was stuck in a middle place between the past and a future I couldn’t quite make out.

  * * *

  J.P. was telling me something over the music, but I couldn’t hear him.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Do you want another drink?” he asked again, louder.

  “Oh! Sure!” I said. J.P. and I were with seven other people, sharing a booth at one of the New York clubs whose long lines I used to pass on my way home from working late.

  He held up a hand, and it seemed like magically our server appeared out of thin air. Had she been watching our table all along from behind a hidden wall or something, waiting for J.P. to raise an arm? It was weird, but then again, there were a lot of new things I’d discovered since I’d started hanging out with J.P. Like how freeing it was to let loose and dance on a table with friends I’d just met. Like how easy it was to be absorbed into someone else’s circle, and to have him take care of everything. Like how far away the crap of my life felt when I was hanging out until two and three a.m. J.P.’s life was big—enormous, really—and in some ways I wanted to be swallowed up into that. I was tired of trying to find my way, tired of everything being so difficult, and in J.P. I saw a way out.

  It was after three a.m. whe
n J.P. and I left the club and climbed into the black SUV that was waiting for us outside.

  “Since my hotel’s across town, should we just go to your apartment tonight?” J.P. suggested. “It’s just a few blocks away, right?”

  “Oh,” I said, and willed myself to sound calm. “Nah, it’s really small, and it’s a complete mess, since I’ve been traveling so much.” I was panicked at the thought of him in my space. My apartment was my sacred sanctuary. The sight of it would reveal way more of my internal workings than I was willing to share. I couldn’t imagine what he would think about the dozens of photos of Pat lining my walls, or the stacks of books I pored over in my darkest times, looking for a hint of inspiration and guidance. A person’s space reveals a great deal about him or her, and mine was a treasure map through my troubled psyche. In my cramped one-bedroom apartment, there would be no place to hide the darker parts from a casual visitor.

  “Okay, then,” J.P. said, and gave the driver the name of his hotel.

  I woke up early the next morning, quietly snuck out, and took a cab back to my place, still wearing my dress from the night before, hoping I wouldn’t run into anyone I knew. As soon as I got home, I stepped out of my clothes and into the shower. I felt awful. Partying late into the night, talking to people I didn’t really know about nothing in particular, felt wrong. It was supposed to be fun but it wasn’t me. Having a casual relationship with someone like J.P. wasn’t me. I needed to feel a more meaningful connection that just wasn’t there, but I didn’t want to stop seeing him, so I convinced myself that the distraction was good. Though I was committed to playing it cool, deep down I knew I needed more.

  * * *

  “Please, have a seat in the conference room to your left,” a congressional aide said, and motioned Pat’s family and me through a doorway. “We’ll call you to come in shortly.” We were in Washington, DC, for the second congressional hearing about the fratricide cover-up. It ends here, I thought. Somehow or other. I didn’t know that we’d feel satisfied with the result, but this was the last stop. There was no higher court or place to go.

  Donald Rumsfeld appeared in order to testify, and there had been quite a bit of media leading up to this hearing. I felt the cameras on us immediately after we were called to take our seats in the hearing room.

  The final hearing was an outrage. When Rumsfeld testified, he said he couldn’t remember when he was first notified about the fratricide. How could that be? He had written Pat a personal letter once he’d enlisted, commending his decision. Rumsfeld had also sent a colleague a memo about how Pat was someone to watch, how he was special. Pat had wanted to be treated like any other serviceman, but he never had been, and there was no way that the implications of the fratricide would have been lost on Rumsfeld. All he said was “I know I would not be involved in a cover-up…I know the gentlemen sitting next to me are men of enormous integrity and would not participate in something like that.”

  Every fiber of my being was crying Bullshit! but I kept a stone face while remaining rigid and unmoving in my seat. One after another, the generals testified that they didn’t remember anything. And worse, the congressmen and congresswomen who questioned them seemed ready to let them off the hook, praising them for their service and making the whole affair an opportunity to show how patriotic they were, how appreciative they were of our military leaders. So it’s patriotic to lie to the public about how a soldier was killed? Though I had tried to come prepared for anything, I couldn’t believe this was where all Dannie’s hard work, all the phone calls and Freedom of Information Act requests and investigators and energy, had led us. It was a mockery, and I was furious.

  And the next day I’d be back in New York, living my new life and waiting to hear from J.P.

  * * *

  I traveled south again the following weekend, this time passing DC in the air en route to Charleston. J.P. had his kids with him for the weekend, and it had tripped me up a little when he’d told me.

  “Are you sure about this?” I’d asked on the phone one night, when we were setting it up.

  “Yeah, it’ll be great,” he said. “We can go to the beach house for part of it. It’ll be a great time.”

  “Okay, if you’re sure,” I said, and booked my ticket.

  The weekend was wonderful. The first afternoon, we headed to the beach house and went ATV-ing with his kids—a little boy and girl, both under the age of eight. They were warm and friendly toward me and didn’t seem to think too much about why I was there. After the ATV ride, we decided to hike on the beach for a bit. J.P.’s daughter got tired and asked me if I’d give her a piggyback ride, which I happily did. As we bounced along, she chatted comfortably with me, pointing out things she saw along our way.

  “So are you spending the night?” she asked after a while, when we’d run out of birds to identify and crab shells to spot.

  “Um, yeah, I am.”

  “Cool,” she said. “Where are you gonna sleep?”

  I glanced at J.P., who was running a bit ahead of us with his son. He hadn’t heard. This was definitely one for him to field, not me.

  “Oh,” I said, “I’m not really sure. Hey, want to collect some seashells?”

  “Sure!” she said brightly, and I set her down. We both searched the sand for shells, the question forgotten.

  That night, we ate dinner on the patio outside J.P.’s house, the ocean breeze a welcome respite from the heat, the lapping waves still in view. J.P. and I drank margaritas and ate barbecued chicken while the kids ran around on the surrounding lawn. They’d stop their play every so often to come over and climb on J.P. for a bit. It was clear that he was a great dad, and that his kids adored him. I leaned back in my chair and soaked happily in the domestic scene around me. This was not my home, these were not my kids, and J.P. and I weren’t even close to being serious about each other. But I couldn’t help thinking how nice, how comfortable it all was. How close it was to the future Pat and I had imagined. My last morning at the beach with J.P., we stayed in bed as long as possible. I snuggled under his arm and put my head on his chest. I liked the feeling of being close to someone again, lingering in bed. He took my hand and laced his fingers through mine.

  “You’re not wearing your wedding ring,” he said. “How come?”

  “I guess I don’t feel married anymore,” I said.

  My wedding ring had come off in stages. I’d taken my engagement ring off six months prior but hadn’t felt ready to let go of the thin wedding band, the last physical symbol of our marriage. I had been sneaking around with J.P. for months, and it was true that I no longer felt married. But psychologically, there was still so much tied up in this small piece of jewelry. I didn’t want to take it off, but for some reason, the week before the beach trip, I felt like it was time. I was in New York, my normal routine in motion. I woke up, went to the gym, showered, and got dressed for work. But that morning when I picked up my ring to put it on before leaving the house, something made me stop. I held it up, feeling the small diamonds between my fingers.

  Standing in my bedroom, looking at this beautiful ring that I loved, I knew there was no right answer. I could wear it forever, or take it off. Neither would bring Pat back or prove my love for him. As with many small and large things I had been forced to face since Pat’s death, it was up to me to decide the meaning. I pulled a small blue pouch from my jewelry box and took out my engagement ring. I slipped both rings over my left finger. As I held up my hand, the solitaire diamond of my engagement ring caught the morning light coming through the bedroom window, and I wiggled my hand a bit, making it dance. After a few seconds, I slipped both rings off, placed them gingerly in the blue velvet pouch, and tucked it into the back of my drawer. I headed out the door, feeling a strange mix of sadness and resolve.

  * * *

  The week after the Charleston trip, I didn’t hear much from J.P. A spotty text message or two, and I started agonizing over what they meant. I felt sure the whole thing was falling apart, and I
became crazed.

  Late at night I would call my sister for advice.

  “I haven’t heard from him in a couple days. What do you think I should do? Should I call?”

  I couldn’t believe what I was saying. How had I gotten to this place?

  To the outside world, I seemed normal. But in my head I was going crazy, thinking about J.P. all the time. Christine was the only person who knew my real mental state, and she was equally unprepared for handling the situation. Both of us had married our high school boyfriends. We had no experience dating as adults. I felt completely confused and out of sorts. Mostly, I was mad at myself for getting so anxious over this man when so much had happened in my life that was much more real.

  We hadn’t made a plan for when we would see each other again, and I felt like he had all the power in the situation. I wanted to play it cool, but was it fair for me to have to sit around and wait for him to text me? I didn’t want to juggle everything just because he waited too long to tell me he was going to be in town. When J.P. did come to New York again, I asked him straight out, after dinner one night, where he thought this was going.

  “What are you talking about?” he said lightly. “I’ll give you a call next week. Maybe we can meet up when you’re in California for work at the end of the month. Have you ever been to Gjelina in Venice?”