Ten-Word Tragedies

by Tim Lebbon

  I cannot tell you how much our correspondence means to me. Even on sunny days, your letters warm me like the July sun. You are such a clever and funny girl. I cannot get you out of my mind. When I am on drill—which is terrifically dull—I need only to think of you, and my spirits lift.

  Would it be impudent to request a photograph of you to place in my box of letters? Impudent. Is that a new word for you? I bet it’s not. Someday, I will find one you don’t know. Ha!

  I would dearly love a photograph. I dreamed of you last night, at that picnic, standing by the water with the wind blowing the dress around your lovely legs. When I woke, I thought, ‘I shall ask her for a photograph.’ And so I am.

  Yours,

  Frank

  December 25, 1944

  Dear Frank,

  Merry Christmas!!! I enclosed another photograph of me in your holiday box. I must say, you are terrifically easy to buy gifts for when you ask only for photos. I did, of course, send you more. I hope you enjoy the candies. I bought them at the church bazaar, along with the scarf.

  Thank you so much for the poems. You find such interesting ones. They are not like any I’ve read before, and I must confess, I struggle to understand them sometimes. They are very beautifully written. I’ve thought of showing them to Miss Baker in hopes she can help me understand them better, but I know you said they were ‘for my eyes only,’ so I have not. You have said you will explain them when you come home, and I will wait for that.

  You must tell me how you celebrate Christmas there. Ours is the same as always, quieter now that Mother is gone, but Dad makes the best of it for me as I do for him. That will be my story for today. How Barbara spent her Christmas. It began when the cat woke me just past dawn…

  March 12, 1945

  Dearest Barbara,

  Thank you so much for the new photographs. They are quite lovely. I do hope you will send more. There is one you mailed me a couple of months ago, of you in a green dress, and I know you said the hem was unfashionably high, but it showed your legs to such advantage. If you have more photographs of you in that dress, I would love to see them. All the boys here are terrifically jealous that I am in communication with such a lovely young lady. Two have been quite persistent in asking for your mailing address, but I have told them you are all mine. Ha!

  I dreamed of you last night. It was such a vivid dream that it woke me in quite a state. Do you ever dream of me at night? If you do, what sorts of dreams are they? I would dearly love to know. Are you still reading those poems I send? Are you understanding them better? I think you are, but you are too shy to say so, my lovely Barbara. If you do not wish to put your thoughts into a letter, for fear of the censors, I shall be home soon (I hope!), and we can discuss them.

  Please let me know if you dream of me. I might suggest reading the poems before bed and letting them seep into your unconscious. That is, after all, what poetry is for—to spark the deepest parts of our imagination.

  Yours in dreamland (I hope!)

  Frank

  April 2, 1945

  Dear Frank,

  The green dress! Oh my, I am sorry you were fond of that one. I fear it has been handed down to my little cousin, Nell. It really had grown unfashionably short on me. I have enclosed two others of me in my Sunday best. I know those aren’t your favorites, but it’s still too cold for spring dresses.

  I am glad you will explain about the poems. I’m not being shy when I say I don’t understand them. If I’m being truthful, I feel a little foolish that I don’t. My teachers always said I was frightfully good at reading comprehension, and I feel quite a dunce that I don’t understand these. I shall eagerly await your explanation!

  Do I dream of you at night? I laughed at that. Night is when we dream, isn’t it, silly? I confess that I’m very bad at remembering my dreams. I did have one, a few months ago, where you returned, and your parents threw a huge party. It was a smashing dream, and I hope it comes true soon!

  Now, it is time for a story. This one is about our neighbor, Mr. Moore. Don’t worry. It isn’t gossip! I know better than that. It’s a funny story that he retells himself. It started shortly before we moved in, when he found a cow in his yard and…

  April 8, 1945

  Frank,

  This is John Randolph, Barbara’s father. Not Uncle Jack. Not even Jack. You may no longer call me either.

  I have just found your letters to my daughter, and I am appalled. Sick to my stomach, if the truth be told.

  How dare you write to my child in such a manner? I saw the poems—those lewd lines that masquerade as poetry. I saw your talk of ‘night dreams’ and your repeated requests for photographs, asking her to wear certain dresses or to pull her skirts up to show off her ‘lovely legs.’ My only consolation is that Barbara never realized your lecherous intentions. How could she? She is a child. A twelve-year-old girl. And if you dare pretend that you thought she was older, let me remind you how close our families have been. You knew her age exactly and still you…

  I cannot even finish that line.

  I have forbidden Barbara to communicate with you. I have simply told her that your letters fostered a relationship inappropriate for her youth. She doesn’t understand, but I will not enlighten her. Out of respect for your parents, I will let it go at that and allow her to preserve fond memories of you as a soldier she befriended during the war.

  If you have any illusions regarding the nature of her intentions, let me assure you, that is exactly how she sees you. As a friend of the family. A soldier with whom she corresponded. A person she enjoyed corresponding with, as she might an older brother. Nothing more.

  Do not contact my daughter again.

  John Randolph

  May 1, 1945

  Hi Uncle Jack,

  Yes, I will call you that. It is what I have always called you, and I hope that by now you have reconsidered your hasty words, spoken in misdirected anger. I will admit to a fit of anger myself on receiving your letter. Outrage, to be honest. That is why it has taken me so long to reply. I had to calm myself enough to make a measured response.

  I have no idea what ‘poems’ you refer to. The ones I sent your daughter were certainly not those you claim to have found amongst my letters. I can only imagine that she has been reading lascivious poetry, and in her shame, she blamed me for sending them.

  You call her a child. That did make me laugh. Was it not you who said, in our first letter, that she was already a young woman? She’ll be thirteen next month, old enough to marry in our fair state of New Hampshire. As her father, you may wish her to remain a child, but if you think she is, then you haven’t taken a close enough look at her lately. I suspect her newfound maturity is the source of those ‘lewd’ poems you found. If questioned more closely, you may find that she understands them far better than she would admit to her father.

  As for the photographs, Barbara sent them to me unsolicited. I will admit that I wondered about their appropriateness, but I otherwise enjoyed our correspondence too much to risk it by questioning her motives. She would not be the first young lady to entertain romantic notions about a soldier. My intentions, however, were entirely honorable.

  If you have not already reconsidered your hasty words, I hope you will do so now, Uncle Jack. To impugn the honor of a soldier is no small thing. I am fighting for your freedom—yours and your daughter’s—and I would advise you to remember that.

  As you’ve no doubt heard, the Germans are on the brink of surrender. When they do, I’ll look forward to coming home. I expect that, by then, you will have seen your mistake, and I will look forward to visiting. I have promised souvenirs to Barbara, and I intend to deliver them, in gratitude for the kindness she has shown me. Despite the mischievous stories she may have told about me, I hold her—and you—in high esteem, and I look forward to seeing you both.

  Your nephew in Germany,

  Frank

  May 20, 1945

  Frank,

  The sheer perversity of your l
etter is…

  Again, you render me speechless. You accuse my daughter of collecting that poetry when it is clearly written in YOUR hand? You accuse her of sending you photographs unsolicited when I can READ your solicitations for them?

  You must think me a fool, boy. Or an old man desperate for a son-in-law. I am neither. I am the very proud father of a lovely girl, one who will be going to high school after the summer break, and then off to college if she wishes.

  You speak of coming to see us. Let me warn you right now, boy, if you ever darken my doorstep, I shall meet you with a shotgun in my hand.

  John Randolph

  June 12, 1945

  Dear Frank,

  Miss Baker gave me the letter you posted to her. She was swayed by your eloquence and implored me to accept it. I…I do not know what to say. I am confused and, yes, embarrassed by my father’s actions. Your letters upset him a great deal, and yet he will say no more than that some of your words—and those poems—were inappropriate. I’ve tried speaking to him about it, so I may fully comprehend his meaning, but he refuses.

  Dad has suffered greatly since my mother’s passing. He loved her dearly. Miss Baker believes you are correct, that if he is behaving irrationally—that is the word she used—it is due to grief. As she says, I must remember this month is the anniversary of her death, and that always hits him hard.

  I was pleased to hear you have safely returned from war. Your parents must be delighted to have you home. Yes, I know you promised me those souvenirs, and I also have that sweater I made for you. You suggested a picnic behind the ruins of the old church, and that does sound lovely.

  Yes, that settles the matter. I will meet you. By then, my father might feel more himself, and I can ask his permission. If he does not, well, I am thirteen now. I will make this decision myself. You are a dear family friend, who did a tremendously brave thing fighting for our country, and you are owed the courtesy of a visit.

  Tell me a date and time, and I shall bring the sweater and a picnic lunch.

  Your cousin,

  Barbara

  FAIRVIEW REGISTER

  June 28, 1945

  On Sunday afternoon, a thirteen-year-old girl was allegedly assaulted by a recently returned twenty-year-old soldier. The attack took place during a picnic behind the ruins of St. Matthew’s. Police say the girl is convalescing at home. The young man has been remanded to a hospital, where he will be evaluated and treated. He is said to be suffering from shell shock, and police believe the attack was an unfortunate consequence of his mental confusion. No charges will be laid.

  July 10, 1945

  Frank,

  You know what you have done. I know what you have done. I do not care if it is unChristian of me to wish you ill. I do not care if it is unAmerican to wish you ill. I wish you more than ill. Every night, as I listen to my daughter cry herself to sleep, I pray to God that your guilt tortures you every waking and sleeping moment of your life.

  The doctor tells me you suffer from what he calls ‘the war within.’ Do not forget that I served my country in the Great War. I still wake at least once a month in a cold sweat, having dreamed of being back in those trenches. I know what it can do to a man’s mind. But that is not your excuse.

  Dorothea Dixon spoke to me after you attacked Barbara. She told me of the undue attention you paid my daughter at the picnic before you shipped out. Dorothea and her sister were greatly troubled by the way you watched Barbara, and the way you followed her. Finding it very unseemly, they intervened, taking my daughter aside. I only wish they’d spoken of their concerns, either to her or to me. If they had, I would never have allowed you to correspond with Barbara.

  Yes, you may very well suffer from ‘a war within,’ but it is a battle of a very different sort. A very personal and perverse sort, one which you should have the moral fortitude to recognize.

  I have begged the police to lay charges. They refuse. They tell me your account of events is very different from Barbara’s. She is a girl, and you are a decorated soldier. Despite my daughter’s physical injuries, they choose to believe that your ‘attack’ was a simple misunderstanding. I will not forgive them for that.

  I told myself I would not contact you. I would not speak to you ever again. Then I received your letter, apologizing for the ‘misunderstanding’ and offering to marry my daughter when you are released from the hospital. So I must respond.

  You wish to marry Barbara to repair her ‘honor,’ as you put it? My daughter’s honor is just fine. It is yours that is beyond repair. I am certain that when my daughter is of age, if she chooses to marry, she will have no shortage of excellent suitors who will understand that what happened to her was the fault of an evil man. If I am wrong—or if your actions lead Barbara to decide never to wed—then I will personally guarantee she wants for nothing. I would rather work myself into an early grave than see her marry you.

  I hope they never release you from that hospital. If they do, I expect self-preservation will prevent you from ever attempting contact with my daughter again.

  John Randolph

  July 17, 1945

  Hi Uncle Jack,

  I got your letter today. Thank you for it. I spent eight days in the hospital. I got home Monday morning, and I feel good. Thank you for your concern.

  See you soon,

  Frank

  P.S. How is Barbara coming along?

  THE NEW BOYFRIEND

  SCOTT SMITH

  ‘THE NEW BOYFRIEND, I ASSUME?’

  Dan looks up from his phone and finds the older man appraising him. When Dan had come in and taken the chair at the foot of the bed, Mr. Redding had been asleep, softly snoring, his eyes seeming to jump and flutter beneath their shut lids. And Dan had thought: Maybe this won’t be so bad. He hadn’t sensed Mr. Redding awakening. The man’s voice came as a surprise, much deeper than Dan had been expecting. He slides his phone into his pocket, and instinctively corrects his posture, sitting straighter. ‘Yes, sir.’

  Mr. Redding squints at him. His bed is cranked up a notch. He’s still mostly facing the ceiling, though, and he has to stare down the length of his body to see Dan. It looks awkward, but then everything about the man looks awkward—the way his legs are splayed beneath the covers, the claw-like clutch of his hands. ‘From a small town?’

  ‘No, sir. Not really.’

  ‘ROTC?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘What’s with all the ‘sirs?’’

  ‘Just being polite, I guess. Showing respect.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Stop fucking calling me sir!’

  Mr. Redding’s voice has leapt in volume—more from exasperation, it seems to Dan, than anger, but it’s unnerving nonetheless. Dan glances toward the open doorway, the hallway beyond, the nurses moving about in their white shoes. He gives a nervous laugh, a placating pat at the air. ‘I’m sorry. What should I call you?’

  ‘Tom.’

  ‘Okay. Nice to meet you, Tom.’ Dan starts to rise, starts to offer his hand for a shake, but then catches himself, mortified, and sits back down. He can feel the blood rushing to his face, the hot surge climbing up from his neck, his skin flushing.

  The older man watches all of this, staring down the length of his motionless body. ‘And your name is?’

  ‘Dan.’ There’s that impulse to shake again, but this time Dan manages to repress it. Without thinking, he pulls his phone out of his pocket, giving his hands something to occupy them.

  ‘How long have you been seeing her?’ ‘Her,’ of course, being Mr. Redding’s daughter, Jill.

  ‘A month or so. Almost two.’

  ‘Know anything about your predecessor?’

  Dan has seen some pictures, heard a few stories, just enough to gather an impression of a charming, somewhat shallow-looking young man—taller, leaner, with a more angular face than his own—an undeniably handsome but ultimately unthreatening rival. He shrugs. ‘A bit.’

  ‘His name was Cart
er. Which sort of makes me wonder if she’s starting to go in alphabetical order.’

  It takes Dan a moment to follow this. Then he smiles. ‘Was there a ‘B’ before Carter?’

  ‘I honestly can’t remember. It was a fellow with a goatee. She was in a phase where they all seemed to have some sort of facial hair. Where is she?’

  ‘She missed her bus from the city. She’ll be a little late.’

  ‘How did you get here?’

  ‘I had a lunch in Hoboken. Then I took an Uber over. Jill and I were supposed to meet in the lobby.’

  ‘But she said you should just go ahead and come up on your own? Is that it? Keep her poor old dad company?’

  Dan nods. ‘Something like that.’ It had actually been a slightly more complicated conversation. Dan had wanted to continue waiting in the lobby, but Jill had insisted he go in ahead of her. She said her father was expecting them—that he’d worry if no one showed up. This isn’t the impression Dan is getting now, however, and he’s beginning to wonder if Jill might’ve missed her bus on purpose, as some sort of test for him: Can you handle this?

  Mr. Redding appears to be following a similar line of thought. ‘She must have confidence in you then,’ he says. ‘You should take it as a compliment.’ His eyes shift, straining toward his right, toward the window looking out on the rather barren-seeming courtyard. ‘Mind bringing me that pillow there, sliding it under my head? So we can have a proper conversation?’

  There’s a pillow on the shelf beneath the window. Dan gets up, grabs it. He has to lift Mr. Redding’s head, and it’s an odd moment, touching the older man’s skull like this—the high round dome, the thinning, slightly greasy brown hair. There’s a feeling of looming peril, the sense that Dan might cause the man further damage if he’s not careful. He steps back. ‘Good?’