Mark Z Danielewski
Page 48
I will always love and adore you, Merry Christmas,
Mommy
March 15,1984
My dear cherished Johnny,
Forgive your mother. News of your hospitalization sent me into the kind of self-indulgent behavior that serves no one least of all you. I am so sorry.
For a day your mother was even free. So overwrought by her son's misfortune, she escaped this Old English Manor in search of his tormentor. As it was raining and thundering, the Director claims I outdid Lear. Not even lightning could out light my rage.
In fact, my rage was so great the attendants here had to fit me with a canvas suit lest I hurt them or further damage myself. The Director finally modified and even increased my medications. Eventually these measures took effect and my hate diminished (though never the pain). Unfortunately so did my ability to function coherently, hence my silence during your time of trouble.
When you needed me most, I failed. I'm as sorry as I am ashamed. I shall never behave that way again. I promise.
Time does heal—they say. Still were I free now I would head straight for Marine Man Raymond and end him. I don't doubt even your pacific father would have resorted to violence.
I do long to hear the details from your tender lips. Please write me as soon as possible and recount everything. The telling will help, I assure you. Did he really break your nose? Snap your teeth? Are there still contusions on your face?
I confess even having to write these questions stirs a frenzy in the chambers of my soul. I would like nothing more than to tear out the liver of your purported protector and feed it to him with a hiss. He could semper fi that meal all the way to Hades. But since he is shielded from my wrath by my own confusions—damn it!—I shall invoke Hecate in her Acheron depths, and by scale of dragon, eye of newt, boiled in the blood of murdering ministers and Clytemnestra's gall, cast a great curse which shall fly directly on a dark wind and take up immediate residence in his body, daily chewing on his flesh, nightly gnawing on his bones, until many months from now, moments before the final spark of self-awareness expires, he will have witnessed the total dismemberment and consumption of every limb and organ. So written, so done. This curse is cast. Fuit Ilium.
And now, without a doubt, you see your mother is mad.
Ira furor brevis est.
(Though in her case, not so brief.)
At least you shall have a new family. Hopefully this one will be gracious and sympathetic.
Your mother mends you
with kisses and gentle strokes,
Mommy
April 22,1984
My dear, delightful Johnny,
I'm infinitely pleased by news of your continued recovery but thoroughly confused by the latter content of your letter. What do you mean you are still with the same family? How is it no one believes you? Aren't broken teeth enough?
An evil wind rattles your mothers caged heart.
I am also troubled by your reluctance to tell me more about the incident. Words will heal your heart. If you ever come to disregard everything I've told you, believe at least this much: your words and only your words will heal your heart.
I so love you, you divine and precious creature. Please write me quickly and open your soul to your mother. Share all your secrets and most of all divulge how the man who nearly took your life still retains the role of father. Does he not know the fate of Claudius or Ugolino?
With interminable love and devotions,
Mommy
June 3,1984
My cherished Johnny,
I have decided not to question your silence. You are fast becoming a man and I am not blind to the fact that my encouragements, love and faith (not to mention my silly curses) matter little when matched against the iniquities of the world you daily face.
If I offended you with my last letter, find it in your heart to forgive me. Love alone prompted me to demand a complete disclosure of your experiences.
You, however, know best what's right for you, and I would rather die than harm in any way the faith you keep in yourself.
Love's every word, Mommy
June 26,1984
My dear Johnny,
Your sentences cast spells. Once again you've turned your mother into a silly school girl. Like Hawthorne's Faith, I put pink ribbons in my hair and subject everyone here, including of course the good Director, to a complete account of your prodigious accomplishments.
Your letter is not paper and pencil. It is glass, a perfectly ground glass in which I can endlessly gaze on my fine young boy, unleashing arrows like some Apollo, scrambling across cliffs like the agile and ever wily Odysseus, not surprisingly besting his peers in mad dashes by the shores of that turquoise lake you described—Hermes once again pattering on terra! And to top it all off, a kite of your own construction still drifting among the temples of Olympus.
Like Donnie, you too were born with the wind under your wings.
I've carefully hung your blue ribbons on my bureau where I can see them every morning and every evening. Every afternoon too.
Heart blistering with love, Mommy
P.S. When you return from camp you will find your birthday present.
September 7,1984
Dear, dearest Johnny,
To endure over two months without a word and then with the first words learn such terrible news tore me to pisces.
Could I now, I would whisk you away to the damp burrows of the underworld and double'dunk you in the Styx so neither head nor heel—especially heel—could ever suffer again the ignoble insults of pain.
Bear in mind though that your mother is an infinitely more subtle reader than you care to give her credit for. When the Director warns me of some battery perpetrated by you (?)/ inflicted on you (?) in the Junior High recess yard, and yet in your letter you mention no such antics, only allude to troubles with that hire of the damned who dares claim the title of patriarch, I know whose offending hand has harmed my only child.
For the life of me, I cannot understand your lasting silence on this matter, but must put my faith in your instincts. Nevertheless do not do me the discourtesy of underestimating my ability to interpret you, catch your signs, crack your codes. You are my flesh. You are my bones. I know you too well. I read you too perfectly. The reasons why you fled to the fields and lived for eight days—an anonym, a no one, a survivor—are no secret to me.
Clearly you have great skills to last the world in such zones of deprivation but realize something Johnny, your abilities can take you much farther than that. You only have to believe it, then you will find a better escape.
Do not rely on your fists (enough of brawling), shun the television, do not succumb to the facile and inadequate amazements of liquor and pills (if they haven't already, those temptations will eventually seek you out) and finally do not entrust your future to the limits of your stride.
Rely instead on the abilities of your mind. Yours is especially powerful and will free you from virtually any hell. I promise.
Hige sceal j)e heardra, heorte J)e cenre, mod sceal J?e mare, j?e ure mxgen lytlab.
Now please do not misconstrue my advice as anything other than the deeply felt aspects of my affection.
All my love and attention,
Mommy
October 14,1984
My dear Johnny,
What an exceptional idea. I knew you'd think of a way. Do not be precious either with your attempts. Apply to every boarding school available.
As for that nit'wit Raymond who insists on calling you "beast" let his blindness protect you. What he does not expect, he cannot work to prevent.
You are the wonderful presence the years ahead will teach a world to cherish. Remember, if this gives you any comfort, which I hope it does, anyone who tries to box and bury your soul (for as leaves are to limbs, so are your words to your soul) so will he be cast in my ire and so will he perish. Only those who stand by you shall be warmly remembered and blessed.
Honi soit qui mal y pense.
March 7,1985
Dear, sweet Johnny,
I am still alive. Unfortunately the dead of winter was not kind to your mother as she reverted to the state that brought her here in the first place, the very same state that your glimmering father wrestled with so nobly.
Everyone here, especially the honest Director, was kind and attentive but their efforts still could not break me from my wild and often, I'm afraid to admit, hallucinatory condition. Sad but true, sometimes your mother hears things.
Non sum qualis eram.
At least thoughts of you brought me moments of peace. Just the mention of Johnny conjured up sweet memories of rain soaked meadows, mint sprigs in tea and sailboats slewing wakes of phosphorescence at midnight—an entire history of the stars briefly caught in the Sound.
My lovely son, please pardon your mothers silence. Only yesterday did the Director show me your letters. I feel terrible that I let you down like this and yet at the same time feel proud that you continued to make such progress.
Right now I am too tired to write a longer letter but never you fear, you will hear from me soon enough.
I love you,
Mommy
April 13,1985
My wondrous child,
You put your mind to it and voila you succeeded. Now get away from that place as quickly as possible. You are free.
Proudly and lovingly yours, Mommy
May 11,1985
Dear dear devoted Johnny,
Is it possible? Will I really see you in ten days?
After all these years, am I to finally marvel at your face and touch your hands and taste for myself the sweetness of your voice?
I'm dancing around awaiting your arrival. People here think I really am crazy. Hard to believe a year ago you were nowhere, and now you're off to Alaska for the summer and then boarding school.
I will admit I'm a little nervous. You must not judge your mother too harshly. She is not the blossom she used to be, to say nothing of the fact that she also lives in an institute.
Hurry. Hurry. I won't be able to sleep until I have you at my side filling my ear with your adventures and plans.
With too much love for even the word to hold,
Mommy
July 24,1985
Dear Johnny,
Where are you? Almost two months have passed since your visit and Fm possessed by an eerie presentiment that all is not well. Was it your leaving that seemed to offer up a discordant note? The way you turned your back on your mother and only looked back twice, not that twice shouldn't have been more than enough, after all once was too much for Orpheus, but your lookings seemed to signal in my heart some message of mortal wrong.
Si nunca tes fueras.
Am I being silly? Is your mother having a fit over nothing? Tell me and I will shut. All I require is the assurance of a letter in your exquisite hand or at the very least a postcard. Tell your mother, my dear, dear child, that she's just being a silly girl.
What bliss to have had you in my company. I hope my tears did not disturb you. I just was not prepared to find you so beautiful. Like your father. No, not like, more. More beautiful than your father. It made no sense to hear how that terrible Marine Man could beat you like an animal and call you a beast. Such flawless features, such dazzling eyes. So sharp with the snap of intelligence yet so warm and alive with the sap of life. Like the wise old you seemed to me even though you are still so remarkably young.
Some people reflect light, some deflect it, you by some miracle, seem to collect it. Even after we went inside and left the blunt sun to the lawn, the shadows of the rec room could do nothing to dull your shimmer. And to think this almost supranatural quality in my only boy was the least of his wonder.
Your voice and words still sing within me like some ancient hymn which can on its own live forever among the glades and arbors of old mountains, black forests, the waves of dead seas, places still untouched by progress. In the tradition of all that existed long before the invention of the modem or the convenience store, your tale-telling stilled wind and bird as if nature herself had ordered it, knowing you carried a preserving magic worthy of us all.
Donnie had instances like that. When he spoke of flying—his only real love—he too could still the world. You, however, seem to manage it for everything. It's a rare and stupendous gift and yet you've absolutely no idea you have it. You've listened to tyrants and lost faith in your qualities. What's worse, the only one to tell you otherwise is a mad woman locked up in the loony bin.
Dear me, that is a mess!
Perhaps your new school will set you straight. Hopefully some good teachers there will offer you the nurturing you still require. Perhaps even your mother's condition will improve enough so you can begin to take her seriously.
One bit of bad news: the old director has left. The new one seems more indifferent to my emotional patterns. He's convinced, I regret to say, that my convalescence requires greater restrictions. Though I doubt he'd ever admit it, the New Director sneers whenever he addresses me.
Ah Johnny I could write you like this for days. Your appearance made me so happy. Please write and tell me your visit did not spoil your feelings for me.
Your mother loves you like the old seafarers loved the stars.
August 23,1985
My dear son, the only son I have,
Your mother must hear from you. She is without ally. The New Director pays no attention to her pleas. The attendants laugh behind her back. And now worst of all, her only guiding light has vanished. Not a word, not a sign, not a thing.
I relive your visit every waking moment. Did I mis'see it all? Were you put off, embarrassed, disappointed, determined to depart forever, gritting your teeth until the hour kindly allowed you to go? And me, did I see this all and misinterpret your smiles and chuckles as examples of love, affection, and child' like devotion? Not getting it at all. Missing it all.
At least don't allow your mother's grave to lack the company of the knowledge she craves. If your plan is to abandon me, at least grant me this last respect.
Rompido mi muneca.
Your tearful and terribly confused mother.
September 5,1985
Dearest Johnny,
I am doing my best to accept your decision to leave me in such silence. Hearing it makes my ears bleed. The New Director doesn't approve when I use candle wax to keep out the sound of it. (That's the best I can do at levity.)
I remember when your father would take me flying. I did not go very often. The experience always left me agitated for days. He, however, was always so
calm and delicate about everything. Pre'flight preparations were carried out with the care of a pediatrician and once we took off, despite the roar of the engine, he treated all those thousands of miles like a whisper.
I always wore earplugs but they did nothing to keep out the noise. Donnie was oblivious. I honestly don't believe he heard all the rattling and wind whipping and the awful shuddering sounds the plane made whenever it intersected a particularly unruly patch of air. He was the most peaceful man I ever knew. Up there especially.
Even on that awful and chaotic day, when he had no choice but to take me here, he remained calm and tender. By then his heart was broken, though he didn't know it yet, no one did, but even so his touch remained gentle and his words as edgeless as the way he flew his plane so far above the clouds.
I wish I could have his peace now. I wish I didn't have to hear the rattle and roar and scream that is your silence. I wish I could be him.
I'm sorry you saw what you saw in me. I'm sorry I made you run. I must understand. I must accept. I must let you go. But it's hard. You're all I have.
Love's love and more, Mom
September 14,1985
Oh my dear Johnny,
Doesn't your mother feel sillier than ever. I hope you will burn my last letters. So desperate, so undeserved. Of course you were occupied. That canning business sounds awful.
Your description of the stench alone will leave fish in my nose for weeks.
I shall think twice next time I'm offered salmon, not that The Whalestoe is particularly fond of dishing out poached portions dolloped with dill sauce.
Even more embarrassing than my own pitiful and mewling whines was my complete disregard for the possibility that you were having and suffering your own adventures and tragedies.
Your description of the sinking fishing boat left me speechless. Your phrases and their respondent images still keep within me. The cold water lapping at your ankles, threatening to pull you down into "freezing meadows stretched to the horizon like a million blue pages" or "a ten second scramble to a life raft where all of a sudden the eighth second says no" and of course the worst of all "leaving behind someone who wasn't a friend but might have become one."
You are absolutely right. Losing the possibility of something is the exact same thing as losing hope and without hope nothing can survive.
You are so full of brave insights. They are not for nothing. I have to tell you for a moment your words succeeded in keeping the boat afloat and your Haitian's lungs full of air.
On a brighter note, I am very pleased that you managed to avoid those fights. The occasion you described where you walked from the factory showed great courage and maturity. Your mother glows with pride over her son's new found strength.
School is going to bring you untold pleasures. I promise.
With love and eternal regard,
P.S. I fear the New Director insists on reading my mail now He would not admit to this directly but things he says along with certain mannerisms indicate he intends to study and censor my letters. Stay alert. We may need to find some alternate means of communicating.