September Ends

by Jones, Hunter S.

  LIZ: Sure. Your letters. They will all get a response. I know it's important to you. I will do it.

  JACK: I think I'd better go for a lie down, Liz love. Shall we have a curry this evening?

  LIZ: Think you'll be able to manage that?

  JACK: I'll be fine after a snooze.

  He leaves the room. Liz sighs, relieved that he will rest and that he will no longer struggle to answer all his mail, although the thought of doing it weighs on her, especially now that the volume has shot up after his BBC interviews. There is no way she is going to answer all his letters in pen and ink though, whatever he says. Emails will be answered by emails. She saunters into the oak linen-fold paneled library, Jack's sanctuary. Spot, Zelda's Dalmatian, gets under her feet. Spot gives her a big-eyed look. Even Spot is sad. All hearts in this big, rambling country home are broken.

  Sifting through Jack’s correspondence Liz notices a large envelope filled with an assortment of old letters bound together with a few odd-sized rubber bands. She opens the bundle cautiously, even though Jack had told her there was nothing confidential in his bureau.

  The letters all have American stamps. She notices the dates and postal codes, all from Chattanooga, Tennessee. Her hands shake as she opens the first letter. Her eyes widen and her heart races as she reads the first letter in the stack.

  Dear Poet,

  A short time ago, I happened upon an article written about you in the New York Press. I hope this letter finds you well. The article stated that you still travel a great deal for your art and that you are involved in various charitable works around the globe. It also mentioned that you now have a wife named Liz and a young child named Zelda.

  Congratulations to you all. I wish you as much happiness as a man can receive in one lifetime because you have inspired countless people with your artistry of verse. I hope you love your wife as I once loved. She was the love of a lifetime and also named Elizabeth. A beautiful girl with a drawl as sweet as honey and a mind as deep as a well. She left me years ago, yet I still dream of her and the fire which burns for her in my heart will never subside.

  Once, I had a wife and children. You see, I made a huge mistake and deceived my own self. My sins ignited a chain of events, which caused the loss of numerous lives and many, many injuries. The least of which was the love of my life. Due to my deceptions, I have alienated my own family and have not seen my children in years. Looking for redemption and salvation, I now live in a cabin on Walden’s Ridge, Tennessee. There is no electricity at the cabin and my only companions are The Bible and a copy of On Walden Pond. I must somehow redeem myself for the sins I have committed. As such, I have cut myself off from modern life in order to discover that which is of the most importance. Hence, no computer, no internet, and no email. That is why I am writing you an actual letter.

  Finding your article was a great stroke of fortune for me. Luckily, it had been left on the side of a creek in a fisherman’s little boat, and luckily, I retrieved the newspaper before it yellowed in the warm sun.

  You are a great inspiration to me. Finding your article was a bittersweet moment, as your work has always meant a great deal to me. I admire you. You are your own man and you live life on your own terms. Your poetry touches the very depths of my soul. Your verses touch my soul and make me realize and understand the great joys life will bring us, if we will only do the right thing. Follow that which is good and true, and not allow ourselves to be led to the sins of the flesh when we can follow our heart.

  My entire life, until the last few years, has been lived for all the wrong reasons. I married the wrong person because I thought it was the right thing to do, not because I loved her. Then, when I met my true love, I again did the wrong thing, once again thinking it was the right thing. I have learned from my solitude that the only truth in this world, the only true beauty, is the beauty of love. You told me that years earlier through your verse. Why did I not heed the voice of truth and beauty?

  Mr. Savage, following this letter, you will find a short collection of verses that I have written during my years of solitude. Please accept them as a token of the esteem I hold for you. I hope you find them worthy of your acknowledgement. In the future, I will keep my missives much shorter, as you are a very busy man.

  Sincerely,

  Pete Hendrix

  =============

  Liz's whole being trembles. Pete? Pete Hendrix writing to Jack? She forces herself not to faint, blinks, shakes her head, closes her eyes, and dips her head in shock.

  Where had this guy come from? Why was he writing Jack? A lava of anger seethes up inside her, like she is about to explode.

  She feels, poisoned, polluted, and defiled by her discovery. Two years! Pete had been writing to Jack for two years. Several dozen letters, though some were unopened. The whole Pete nightmare flares back up in her like a fire that was never out.

  And then Jack peeks over her shoulder. “Oh, you've found the Walden Wilderness guy from Tennessee,” he says. “He’s an odd one. Been sending me his poetry for years. It’s quite good, actually. He enjoys my verses, yet he also feels another connection to me. Very odd.”

  Liz avoids Jack's gaze and smiles demurely as she places the letters back in the bureau.

  “He's not what I would call an A-list crazy, more C-list. Indeed, he seems nice enough. If you get a chance, would you drop him a note from me? I’ve not really followed his thread that closely to be honest. I think it was the Tennessee link that caught my eye. There's something fetching about US stamps, too, a sort of restrained exoticism. Sorry, I'm rambling.”

  All Liz can think of is how fast she can burn the hateful, hurtful, correspondence.

  “Liz, what's wrong? Your hand is trembling. Just drop him a quick line and be done with it. Thank him for his letter, blah, blah. I answered a few of his letters and reviewed a few of his poems. Life's far too short.”

  He kisses the top of her head and walks away, trailing his fingers along the ridge of Spot's back.

  “Ain't that right, Spot old chum?”

  Spot follows him from the library with a few half-hearted wags of his tail.

  Liz winces at the sound of Jack coughing as he trudges back upstairs. Spot whines and steals back into the library, where he curls up in front of the fire.

  Liz moves to feed the letters into the fire. Spot looks up as if sensing her horror.

  She can't do it. She can't throw the letters onto the flames. Her love for Jack is such that she will do as he wishes. She will drop a short letter to Pete Hendrix. She will not allow her life to be blown off course by her shocking discovery. Pete Hendrix is history, just another one of Jack's army of fans, nothing more.

  Three days on, she sits down and reads the letters. Jack dictates a short, polite reply to which he signs “Jack O. Savage.” A week later, she finds two letters in Pete's hand, postmarked Tennessee. The letters are full of genuine concern for Jack's health. A week on, they reply, again signing the reply, “With best regards, Jack O. Savage.”

  She can't help but think that if it wasn’t for Pete and how he introduced her to Jack's blogs, fate might never have led her to England, to become his wife. She is too exhausted by dealing with Jack's illness to think twice about it. And now Zelda's schoolwork is suffering. And the council is nagging her about removing a dying ash tree from a hedge by the road.

  When Jack dies, the letters will stop. All the letters will stop. So much will stop. The love will stop, despite what Jack might say. Her happiness will be over. Perhaps it would have been better had she never met Jack. Perhaps her happiness is Pete's fault, too. She forces herself to stop thinking, just stop thinking.

  Where is that Zelda? Is that her in the kitchen?

  “ZELDA! Where are you? Is it time to work on your English homework? Come on, now, where are you, baby? Let's have some pancakes! NOW! Do you hear me? ZEEEEEEELDA!”

  Chapter 19

  Correspondence From A Tennessee Cabin

  32nd LETTER FROM PETE to JACK />
  Dear Jack,

  Thanks your reply.

  I agree that whip-poor-will is a more romantic name than your nightjar, though I believe you also sometimes call it a goatsucker - any idea why? My whip-poor-will often perches on top of my cabin and warbles away. I just sit on my porch in the dusk and listen to him. I feel right sometimes when I can forget.

  Thank you for reading the poems I sent you. I did not expect such a generous comment on them. Yep, I guess I do still love her. I will never get her out of my DNA now, not that I want to. It is what it is.

  The old Cherokee guy came round with more moccasins the other day. If you tell me your foot size, I will send you a pair. They have laces up to the knee and were the sort of footwear the warriors would have worn out hunting. I have a pair myself. They are really comfortable.

  Jack, thank you once more for all your replies. I am moved when I re-read them. I still can't believe that you took the trouble to reply to my original twenty-seven-page letter all those months ago. I was out of my mind when I wrote that confession. I feel sort of normal in my own skin again, as far as I will ever be after what's happened to me. I will never go back to my old life. That's over and done now. But between you and Paul Thoreau and whoever penned The Good Book, I feel okay now. Thank you.

  Your friend in the woods of Tennessee,

  Pete Hendrix

  #1. FANTASY 9

  Remember how we dreamed of a cabin?

  There would be a fire, the snow would be deep

  Us: making love on our fantasy rug

  In a fantasy bliss ~ o how we'd kiss!

  Now here am I ~ alone in my cabin

  Deep in the woods with my Cherokee ghosts

  Gazing into the eye of my candle

  All those purrs you purred into my heartswood

  Totem of wing'ed purrs rising within

  The ghost of our love in the night without

  by Pete Hendrix

  #2 LAVENDULA

  One touch of my lavender reminds me

  Of you! Elizabeth, my Liz ... one touch

  'We'll have a garden one day, Pete,' you said

  'A garden full of English lavender'

  And so I plant my lavender each spring

  If you could see my lavender now! Liz love

  I've tried not to love you, God knows I've tried!

  Yet here I am, still planting lavender

  Lavender, lavender, lavender Liz

  One touch of my lavender ... brings you back

  by Pete Hendrix

  #3. I'M DONE WITH LOVE

  So how is it I'm still thinking of you?

  Even now! After everything I've done

  Even now, after the way you ran off

  Even now, sitting on my cabin's step

  Logs to split, beans to hoe, honey to get

  Yet here I sit, still! Thinking about you

  Still feeling your purrs deep within my soul

  Still! Still living and breathing just for you

  Were you to walk down that track to see me now.

  I'm done with love! But love ain't done with me

  by Pete Hendrix

  34th LETTER FROM PETE > JACK

  Dear Jack,

  Sorry to hear you have to go for the biopsy; nothing too serious, I hope.

  Thanks for the pic of you in the moccasins. Glad you like 'em! I think they would look real cool if you ever step onto a stage again to perform your wonderful verses - which I hope you will! All those fans of yours would be sooooo happy!

  I had a really vivid dream about a Cherokee spirit man last night. I suppose you might call him a sort of native poet. I woke up and the vision of him was so strong and I really thought I could hear him speaking some words. I knew, I don't know how, that his name was TALKING WOLF.

  I wrote this down next morning. It's not exactly what he was saying, but it is as close as I can recall.

  O Great Spirit ...

  hawk circling sees all paths ... fork to fire that burns fire ...

  cries in lodges by winter oaks ...

  That was all I could remember. I knew the whole poem, but the dream crumbled before I could write it down. I swear to you it woke me up.

  All the best

  Pete

  #4. ALONE AT NIGHT

  The rain finding holes all over my roof

  The damp in my bones, craving a burger

  I say to myself, 'Pete, I think you're mad'

  'Why don't you just go home, back to your life?'

  'Because, Pete, you love this lover's vigil'

  'This feeling that you get at night, this pain'

  'This arch knowing that wherever you are.'

  'Elizabeth, you know, Elizabeth'

  'Elizabeth, Eliza Beth, your name.'

  I lay here at night just breathing your name

  by Pete Hendrix

  37th LETTER FROM PETE to JACK

  Dear Jack,

  Noooooo I never saw Liz again, in answer to your question. I was told she went to Tahiti as a teacher, or Anchorage. She certainly left Georgia and the Tennessee Valley. Or so I was told. Don't forget, I was out of it, literally. There was the court case. And after that, I just broke down and left society.

  I'm sorry you have to have an exploratory op. I hope it is not serious. I will put a word in for you with the man upstairs. I know you are not religious in an organized way. And my soul is probably toast, but that does not stop me putting in a word for you.

  Thank you once more for your comments on my latest poems. I hope you will feel like writing again yourself soon.

  No, I have heard no more from TALKING WOLF. I met the old moccasin guy the other day and he told me that there was a guy called TALKING WOLF. You could have knocked me over with a feather.

  Your friend in the woods,

  Pete

  #5. BEHIND YOUR KNEES

  I don't know why I used to kiss you there

  But kiss you there I always used to do

  The things you used to love and I loved, too!

  Kissing, licking, murring behind your knees

  Murring you on to crave my love in yours

  Surrounding my sir rendering to you

  Insurgencies of ecstasies alive

  The gliding in, again, the gliding in

  Your hot breath scorching the side of my neck

  My sweat making your skin glisten with love

  by Pete Hendrix

  #6. LOCKED IN YOUR EYES

  Yes, we were nervous the first time we met

  But only in a way that just felt right

  Just like it all felt right, right from the start

  Touching the back of your hand that first time

  That instant when we both knew we were 'there'

  My fingers stroking the back of your hand

  Knowing that you wanted me to do it

  Re-feeling every thrill of that first time

  You placing your hand in mine holding yours

  You holding me in that lock in your eyes

  by Pete Hendrix

  #7 SEPTEMBER ENDS

  A stoner strayed into these woods today

  I find him stretched out in my cabin's shade

  I watch him twitching as he sleeps the sleep

  The languid-pulsed heat decreed it be so

  A tattoo lizard on his ankle watching

  'I know who you are,' says tatt to me, 'Pete'

  The stoner wakes, starts, is freaked by my shock

  'Stay!' I cry, 'It's cool, man! cool,' as he runs

  And runs, and runs, until he's gone ... like you

  Not that I blame him, I'd have done the same

  by Pete Hendrix

  43rd LETTER FROM PETE to JACK

  Dear Jack,

  I didn't tell you at the time, but when you told me it was lung cancer, I fell to my knees and prayed for you. I just prayed for you, man. Be strong. I will pray more for you because you have meant so much for me in my hour of need. I have not said this before, but I
have wished many times that I could meet you face to face, man to man, and shake your hand and tell you what I think about you. You are a rare man, Jack. R E S P E C T.

  I know exactly what you mean about worrying about your daughter. I had a family once when I was in the world. I still think of them every day, just like I think of her every day. And you. I think of you every day, Jack. I tell my trees how things are with you. I know they listen. I feel the energy of Nature flow from them into me. I'm sending you some of that energy now, Jack. I know how you feel about Nature, Jack. I feel the same.

  Yes, if I hear what TALKING WOLF has to say I will surely write it to you. Be strong, man, be strong. I can't write more now because I am too upset. Sorry.

  Praying for your recovery.

  Your friend,

  Pete Hendrix

  #8. SEPTEMBER STARTS

  This crunching that I hear at night: my guilt

  The sound of its teeth tearing my conscience

  And then it stops awhile. I hear it breathe

  Ever so slow, such is its confidence

  In me it's found a meal to last a life

  And then it stirs and starts again: my guilt

  My wolverine-lipped guilt licks my conscience

  There is no rush in a case such as this

  The stoner's tatt lizard a-laughing him on

  So fast did he run, his tatt stayed behind

  by Pete Hendrix

  #9. SEPTEMBER AGAIN

  I ran from my cabin into the trees

  The stoner's tatt lizard a-hard on my heels

  'Pete! It's me, I'm never leaving you!'

  I turn and behold your beauty once more

  'It's me Pete, your Eliza Beth, your Liz'

  'That dream we used to have about a cabin...'

  She shakes her hair just like she used to