The Perfect Letter

by Chris Harrison

  The look in his eyes was so wounded, so fragile. There was something in his expression that reminded her of pictures of him as a boy, pictures his sister and mother had shown her of the young, awkward, bookish Joseph Middlebury, and she hated herself for rejecting his advances.

  She wanted to say yes this time and mean it. It was the right thing, the smart thing. It made complete sense. She would make him so happy. She would make herself so happy.

  So why in God’s name couldn’t she do it?

  “I don’t want to fight,” she said finally. “Sweetheart, I’m so glad you came today. I’m so glad to see you. But all I’ve wanted to do all day today is lie down and read some manuscripts and go to bed.”

  “Read some manuscripts instead of sleeping with your fiancé,” he said. “How sexy.” He had no instinct for sarcasm; Chloe must have been rubbing off on him.

  “I have meetings tomorrow with authors. I haven’t had a chance to look at anything today. Just let me skim this one, and then I can get a good night’s sleep.”

  “All right,” he said, but he couldn’t quite hide the disappointment in his voice. “Maybe a little wake-up call instead?”

  “It’s a date,” she said, and kissed him.

  In a minute she was in her nightgown, teeth brushed, and the two of them climbed into bed side by side. Joseph read a magazine for a few minutes and then rolled over to sleep, shutting off his bedside lamp, but Leigh stayed awake with Jim Stephens’s memoir open on her knees. She hadn’t lied to Joseph about that much, but after a long and passionate night with Jake, she wasn’t up for any more lovemaking that day, not even with the man who’d just proposed marriage to her for the second time in a week.

  I saw the man I’d been sent to kill. I saw him, and he saw me. We locked eyes across the river, looked at each other. I raised my rifle to my shoulders, touched my finger to the trigger. I could feel the heavy thump thump of my heart beating in my chest, the wet heat of the jungle in my lungs, the cold, greasy metal of the gun in my hand. I could still taste the cold corned-beef hash straight from the can.

  I was here to kill. I was here to kill another human being, a man who quite possibly had a family, children, a wife. I had those things back home, and even though I was the one with the gun, I didn’t think I’d ever been so afraid in my life.

  Then he waved to me. He put two fingers to his forehead in a salute, his eyes never leaving mine. I had him in my sights, but he was completely unafraid.

  For a long moment we stood and looked at each other, and before I knew it I had put my gun down, stood up, and saluted him back. He looked at me for one long moment, then turned and disappeared.

  That was my last mission. Two days later I was on a plane for home, in chains. I was being court-martialed, and I’d never been so happy in my life.

  Leigh put the last pages down. It was two in the morning, and she hadn’t been able to stop reading. Jim Stephens was every bit as good a writer as she’d hoped he be—better, even. The story was gripping as well as brutally honest, carefully researched, and well crafted. The man who’d gone to war as a sniper had found his conscience and refused to fight. He’d been court-martialed and then spent three years in the hellhole of Fort Leavenworth prison. His wife hadn’t left him while he was in the war, like he’d said—she’d divorced him when he’d gone to prison, ashamed of the dishonor he’d brought on himself and the family by laying down his arms and refusing to fight. But how could I blame her for thinking so, Jim had written, when the same thoughts went through my own mind every day? Who was I, if I refused to do the one job I’d been sent to do, if I refused to kill?

  She’d found the first title for Leigh Merrill Books, Leigh thought, gathering the pages together. If that was still something that was going to happen.

  She looked over at Joseph, asleep next to her, his mouth open slightly in a snore, his eyelids moving slightly in a dream. She did love him, she really did. She loved his charm and his calm; she loved that he was in love with her. There was something intoxicating about being wanted so very much, being loved. But was that all there was to it, really?

  She caught sight of the ring on her left hand, a large clear diamond surrounded by a circle of smaller ones, in a heavy setting of platinum. It was a little big—it kept sliding around her finger—but she could always get it resized. A little fix and her life would go on as it had before, more or less. It wasn’t settling, like Chloe had said. It was the choice of a certain kind of future, a certain kind of life.

  She thought of her apartment back in the city, the old lady who lived across the hall with her little dog, her doorman, the friends she’d made in the office, the little silver cart in front of the office where she bought her bagel and coffee every morning. She thought of it all with a pang of longing, remembering Sunday mornings with the light streaming in the high-floor windows of her apartment, autumn in Central Park, the air growing cool, leaves crunching underfoot as she walked to the museum. It was a good life, a happy life. An easy life.

  It could continue being easy, too. The only thing she had to do to keep it was give up her grandfather’s money, pay off Russell Benoit, and go on back home like nothing had changed, go on back to her apartment in Manhattan, her job, Joseph. There was nothing wrong with that. In many ways it made perfect sense to her.

  And what was the alternative, after all? She couldn’t stay in Texas, that was clear. Nothing had gone right since the minute she stepped off the plane. Since the minute Joseph had proposed to her, actually, in front of all their friends and coworkers. But that was her fault, mostly—for always holding back from Joseph, for not recognizing a good thing when it was standing right in front of her. She’d never really given him all of herself, not the way he’d deserved.

  She had an image of herself at forty, fifty, sixty, sleeping next to this man, raising kids with him, publishing books with him. They’d have a great apartment in the city, beautiful children, interesting friendships, extensive travels, every luxury imaginable. They’d be the envy of their friends and neighbors, the kind of couple that never fought, the one invited to every dinner party. They’d be the Middleburys, bastions of the society pages, going to charity balls, hosting salons and literary galas. It would be—could be—very satisfying, that kind of life.

  How she wished all that were still enough for her, that nothing, in the past few days, had changed. A sudden feeling of grief squeezed her, took her breath away, and then was gone, replaced by determination.

  She reached over and turned out the light. Everything’s changed. Everything.

  AUGUST 25, 2006

  Starlight Motel

  Huntsville, TX

  Dear Jake,

  My grandfather had a stroke, a little blood clot in his brain that’s rendered him about as helpless as a nine-month-old baby. He’s been in the hospital for two days, and the doctor says it’s very likely he’ll die, and I guess hating him forever doesn’t extend to the grave. I couldn’t let him go without coming to say good-bye, without forgiving him. It wasn’t easy, but it was the right thing to do, and I’m glad I did it. He barely knew me—he kept calling me Abby—but I think some part of him knew I was there. He seemed more peaceful. My uncle thought he was waiting for me to come home so he could die. I’m hoping rather than believing that’s not true.

  I’m afraid even now that the phone will ring and Sonny will tell me he’s dead.

  It was hard to lose my mom, but she was always this kind of dreamy, silent figure in my life, and when she died, it was like she just drifted into another room, like she’d come back at any moment. This is different. This feels like I’m dying along with him, and if I go, I might never come back.

  My aunt and uncle are decent people, but I can’t impose on them. They have their own kids to worry about. Without my grandfather, and you in prison and not answering my letters, I won’t have anyone but Chloe.

  Since I was in Texas anyway, I thought I’d drive up to Huntsville and see if you’d changed your mind at
all about seeing me. Maybe a few months have given you a different perspective on things, I thought. Clearly I was wrong. I never asked you to take on this burden alone, Jake. I never expected you to go so far for me. I would never have asked it of you. I would never have let you do it, if I thought it would be the end of us.

  I know now that you aren’t writing to me. You don’t want to see me. Maybe you’re angry, and you deserve to be. But don’t make me go on without you. It’s the one thing I can’t bear.

  Love,

  Leigh

  AUGUST 25, 2006

  Huntsville State Penitentiary

  Huntsville, Texas

  Dear Leigh,

  During the day I walk in circles. I walk the track, I talk to no one. I work in the laundry, cleaning other men’s clothes. The clothes are stained with shit and urine and semen. They don’t come clean, not really.

  At night I don’t sleep. I’m always afraid. When I close my eyes I see you with the gun in your hand. I see you point it at me. I see you cry. I can’t sleep, knowing I’m the one who’s hurt you. I can never take it back.

  For months now I’ve been keeping my head down and my nose out of other people’s business. The other inmates leave me alone, for the most part. I keep thinking about time off for good behavior. That and the image of you in your blue dress like a meteor shower, your long hair in my face. Drowning me.

  Yesterday I was in my bunk reading a magazine. One of the jokes made me laugh out loud. The old man, Harold, looked up and asked what I thought was so funny. I told him. A judge asks the defendant: “Do you have anything to offer the court before sentencing?” and the defendant answers, “No, sir, my lawyer took my last dollar.”

  It was then that Russ walked in. A little guy, not even five-foot-five. He has the outsized attitude of little guys everywhere, always starting trouble to prove that he’s a badass. His arms are so big he can barely put them down at his sides. He’s covered with tattoos, including one of his girlfriend’s face on his belly, bent over like she’s giving him head. He has small brown teeth.

  He heard us laughing but not what we were laughing about. What’s so goddamned funny? he said, and got up in my face, pushing me. I tried telling him. He kept saying he must be a joke to me, was that it? Did I think he was funny? He didn’t care what we were really laughing about. Sometimes guys need to blow off steam. He got right up in my face, pushing his nose into my chest, shoving my shoulders with both hands, trying to get me to hit him back. Snorting like a bull.

  It would have gotten worse if one of the guards hadn’t heard. He threatened to send us both to solitary if the argument continued. Just try me, he said. He tapped his baton on my bars. They rang like a xylophone.

  Russ shut up after that. He was fuming like Yosemite Sam. The guards can’t be around all the time. You think you’re so smart, don’t you, pretty boy? he said. You think you have all the answers. You sit alone on your bunk and pretend you’re better than the rest of us. But you’re not. You’re not.

  The trouble is, I know he’s right.

  My dad wrote the other day. He found a new job, some little outfit where they train Arabian horses. It was all he could find. He comes sometimes to visit. I hate seeing him. He’s always angry, always bitching about the people who’ve done him wrong. I don’t think I have to tell you who’s on that list. I don’t bother telling him it was all his own fault to begin with. He doesn’t want to hear it. It’s easier for him to blame you, or your grandfather. Or me. Me most of all.

  He told me your grandfather was sick. Something about a stroke. It’s hard for me to forgive him, even if he’s your family and he loves you. He was trying to protect you from me, to keep you safe. Maybe he was right. If I had left you alone to begin with, none of this would have happened. I’d be free and you’d be happy.

  This morning the guards told me I had a visitor, and I knew it had to be you. Maybe you came home to visit your grandfather, decided to come to Huntsville to see me, try to talk to me. I told them I wouldn’t come out. They kept asking if I was sure, didn’t I want to see who had come? A gorgeous thing like her could keep a man going in here a long, long time. They said you kept insisting you wanted to see me. I couldn’t. I told them to tell you to go away, and they did, shaking their heads like I was crazy.

  Maybe I am crazy.

  I’m not myself here, Leigh. I’m bitter. I’m angry at my father for caring more about himself than me, angry at myself for allowing my father to abuse our relationship. I’m angry at your grandfather for trying to keep us apart. I’m angry at my lawyer for telling me he thought I could get off on a self-defense plea. I’m mad at Russ for picking a fight. I’m angry at myself most of all, for being so gullible. For loving you so much.

  I’m not angry at you. I hate to think of you lonely and scared. It isn’t like you. It’s not what you were made for. You should be happy. If it weren’t for me, you would be happy. That’s why I can’t send these letters. If you go on without me, you’ll be happy again.

  If I die in here, I’ve told Harold about the place where I hide my letters, in a slit in my mattress where the stuffing is loose. He promised to mail them to you. He didn’t seem too happy about it, but he promised. I want you to know I was still thinking of you. I want you to understand the decisions I’ve made and why. I hope you can forgive me my ugly feelings. It’s only fear that makes me think this way.

  I hope you know what you mean to me, what you’ll always mean to me. I’d die for you, Leigh. I always said so.

  Every night I pray I will be strong enough to let you go.

  Love,

  —J.

  Eleven

  In the morning Leigh opened her eyes even before her alarm went off, exhausted from having stayed up so late two nights in a row. She hadn’t slept, not really, just drifted into a quasi-conscious state at some point during the night. Her dreams were all exhausting, violent: Leigh in the jungle with a rifle in her hand, raising it to her shoulder, sighting down its length at a target that started out as Dale Tucker, then turned into Jake, then turned into herself.

  She was looking back at someone aiming a semiautomatic rifle at her, someone whose eyes were hidden by the brim of his hat. She raised two fingers, like the man in Jim’s story, and gave a salute to the enemy on the other side of the clearing, but instead of turning around and going, the man pulled the trigger.

  The gun went off three times—pow pow pow—and she felt the bullet pass through her body, fast and sharp as a red-hot poker. Her chest burned. She had only one thought—he shot me!—and then her eyes snapped open.

  She pressed her hands to her chest, in the place where she’d felt the bullet enter her body, and it was several long moments before she was sure she was safe and whole, alive. But for several seconds, while consciousness returned, she remembered the feeling of the bullet passing through her, the heat, the sudden weakness in her limbs. Maybe Dale Tucker had felt the same thing the night she shot him. Maybe he had that same final thought, the shock of realization—she shot me!—before he slipped away.

  The sun was coming in through a crack in the curtains and Joseph was snoring beside her. The cottage, decorated in roughhewn wood and river stones and clean white linens, looked the same as it had the night before. Her suitcase open, clothes strewn everywhere. Jim’s manuscript lying on the floor beside the bed. Everything was perfectly undisturbed except for Leigh herself.

  Then she heard it, knock knock knock, three times fast, like in her dream. Someone was knocking on the door to her cottage.

  Jake.

  Beside her Joseph was stirring in his sleep. She jumped out of bed and ran to the door, unlocked it and swung it open, but instead of Jake, what she saw there was the face of a maid, blinking apologetically in the morning light. “Housekeeping,” she said, and then, seeing Leigh in her nightgown, asked, “Should I come back later?”

  Leigh’s hands were shaking. She steadied them on the door and said, “Yes, just give me an hour, thanks.”

>   Behind her she could hear Joseph sitting up, starting to wake. “Who is it?” he asked in a voice still thick from sleep.

  “The maid. She said she’ll come back,” Leigh said.

  She was both disappointed and relieved. No Jake meant no explanations, no confrontations. And yet some part of her had wanted him to be there behind the door, waiting. To get all her secrets out in the open the way Jim Stephens had done in his book, consequences be damned. What a relief it would be—to be finally rid of her secrets, and her shame, once and for all.

  She went to shut the door, her thoughts turning to her morning cup of coffee and all the meetings she had lined up that day, all the work she had to do, but as the maid pushed her cart on down the path Leigh saw someone else sitting there, someone with his back against the wall of the stone cottage, a brown Stetson with a rattlesnake band in his lap. There were shadows under both eyes, and he had three days’ worth of stubble on his chin, but he stood up when he saw her and crossed to her door in one long step.

  “Wait,” Jake said, putting his hand on the door. “I need to talk to you.”

  “Not now,” she hissed in a low voice. “Let me get dressed, and I’ll meet you down the hill.”

  She started to close the door, but he put his hand out to stop her. “I found out something about Russell.”

  Leigh felt her breath catch. “Did you see him? Is he going to leave me alone?”

  “I couldn’t find out where he was living, but I talked to someone who might know where to find him.”

  “Who?”

  “My dad.”

  “Your dad?” Leigh realized she hadn’t had enough caffeine for this conversation, not yet. She wasn’t following him exactly. “Wait. What does Ben have to do with Russell Benoit? How do they even know each other?”