The Letter Keeper

by Charles Martin

  “Florida.”

  “But I hate this place.”

  I laughed.

  The car drove us to the south side of the St. Johns River, within eyesight of where I’d first found Gunner, and parked in front of a high-rise. I held the door while she looked at me with quiet suspicion. She said nothing on the elevator, simply tapped her teeth with her finger, and then stepped off when the doors opened at the thirty-seventh floor, where I led her down one hallway, into a second, and finally rang the bell at suite 3714.

  She stood tapping her foot, but I don’t think she was aware of it. The suspense was killing her.

  Old man Harby had changed since I last saw him. Blond hair had given way to white. He shook my hand. “What’s it been, twenty years?”

  “Twenty-two.”

  He opened the door and led us into a foyer sparsely decorated with sofas, chairs, and bulletproof glass that looked into the showroom where he kept the jewelry. His secretary buzzed us in, and he led Summer into his candy store where everything glistened. Per my request, Mr. Harby had laid out several dozen items across his display cases. Pendants, bracelets, crosses, necklaces, every type of jewelry you can imagine save one—there were no rings. This wasn’t that type of trip. I was trying to thank her, not marry her. At least, not now.

  She looked at me. Not breathing. Not asking the question on the tip of her tongue. I stepped aside and said, “Pick one.”

  She sucked in a deep breath.

  “Okay . . . two.”

  She covered her mouth, tears bubbling into the corners of her eyes. “Why?”

  I waved my hand across the countertops. “I wanted to thank you.”

  “For?”

  “Giving me a reason.”

  “To . . .”

  I stared down at the river. Directly below us lay the body of water where I’d first lifted Gunner into the boat. From here it flowed east where it bled into the Intracoastal. And finally south where it ended at the edge of the world. I turned to her. “Breathe.”

  She let out a short cry, nodded, and dabbed her nose with a handkerchief that the assistant, appearing out of nowhere, gave her. Summer looked impressed that I’d actually thought this whole thing up. The trip to NYC, picking up her stuff, lunch in Central Park, and then diverting on a flight she thought was coming home. She nodded. “Good answer.” Walking to the counter, she turned and pointed at me. “There’s no way you thought this up all on your own. You had help.”

  “Lots.”

  “Like?”

  “Bones and the girls were helpful with New York, but this . . . is all Clay.”

  She spoke through a smirk, though without looking at me. “Knew I loved that old man.”

  Over the next thirty minutes, she oohed and aahed and touched every single thing on the counter. Even picked up a couple. Eventually she waved her hand across the top of her chest and said, “Is it hot in here or is it just me?”

  Mr. Harby looked at her over his jeweler’s glasses, tugging down his Mr. Rogers sweater. “Temp is set year-round at sixty-five just for this purpose.”

  You could have hung meat in that place.

  Pretty soon, I noticed a theme. Whenever she’d pick up something, she’d set it on her wrist or lay it across her neck or pin it to her blouse and then stare in the mirror, saying, “Doesn’t this look just like Angel?” Or “That looks like Ellie.” Or “Angel would love this . . .”

  All of this was evidence of the life she’d lived—always caring for others. Which had produced the beautiful and selfless inability to think of herself.

  I had a feeling things would end this way.

  In my career, I had made it a habit never to give gifts to anyone at Freetown. I knew the tactics of those who’d kidnapped them in the first place, and gifts were often used to manipulate hearts. Jewelry was commonly used in the psychological warfare in which the girls found themselves. In their minds, glitter equaled deception. A down payment for the evil that was about to be inflicted on them and the revolving door their bodies were to become.

  I never wanted to be associated with that. But Casey was somehow different. While I’d rescued her body, her heart had yet to follow.

  For Casey, I made an exception. Doing so meant I ran the risk of further attaching her to me, but she was fragile and still badly broken. There were pieces of her soul that had yet to return to her. And, if I’m honest, most every time I looked at her, I remembered lifting her off the floor of that shower, feeling her limp legs in my arms, and thinking to myself, What kind of world am I living in now? What evil has been done to this child? And I remember being very angry.

  So we left with three diamond necklaces and a sterling Hamilton pocket watch from the twenties.

  Descending the elevator, Summer stood alongside me, her arm locked in mine, smiling at me in the door’s reflection. She looked giddy. She kept saying, “They’re gonna love them.”

  The driver drove north up Heckscher Drive and stopped when I told him. I led her through the woods to the water’s edge where I’d stashed a small skiff. I cranked the engine, and we routed up the Fort George River against the tide toward my island.

  It was the first time I’d been back since someone had tried to kill me, and the sight did not welcome me. The island had been burned. Everything. To the ground. Barn. Dock house. Outbuildings. Even the chapel. The only things still standing were the ballast stone walls that were more than two feet thick. It’d take more than fire to bring them down. I wandered the island, picking through the wreckage that was once my life.

  Turning up stones.

  It was not easy and it hurt more than I’d thought. I was glad Gunner was not here.

  I found myself staring at the charred walls of the chapel, tracing the grooves of the names and touching the jagged remains of the hooks where I’d displayed the archery pieces I’d brought back from my journeys to parts unknown. All of the oily, hand-worn pews were gone, as was every shiny fragment of stained glass. Adding insult to injury, some kids had spray-painted “Frank was here” and “For a good time, call . . .” across the stone that once supported the altar.

  The place was a good picture of me.

  Summer appeared next to me. Once again feeling more for someone other than herself. “I’m so . . . so sorry.”

  We walked to the water’s edge, where I’d played as a kid, and waded in. Shin deep. A gentle current pulled across our feet and tugged at us. Washed us. I had wanted her to see this. To remember where I came from. That despite what our idyllic life in Colorado might allow us to forget, this was the womb that birthed me.

  My contingency plan had two parts. Both from Mr. Harby.

  I held her hands in mine. “I want to give you something.”

  “Haven’t you given me enough today?”

  “No.” I laughed. “We are giving Angel, Ellie, Casey, and Clay something. And despite lunch in Central Park and eggs Benedict on a private plane, you have yet to let me give you anything.”

  “Well . . .”

  I opened the blue box revealing a Jerusalem cross.

  She covered her mouth. Then touched it gently.

  I lifted it from the box and clasped it around her neck.

  A breeze filtered through the palm trees. Cooling our skin. She tried to talk but bumbled her words. Finally, she laughed at herself, which was one of her best traits. “Is it hot in here or is it just me?”

  I breathed in. Then out.

  She stared at it. Then me. “What’s it mean?”

  “Unconquered.”

  The word on my tongue was somehow tied to a floodgate inside Summer’s head, and when I spoke it, the gate opened. She pressed her head to my chest and stood listening to my heart pound. After several minutes, she stood back and stared at the glistening thing. Letting it rest gently in her palm. “My history with men is not . . .” She shook her head. “Ever since I met you, I’ve been afraid somebody was going to tap me on the shoulder and tell me, ‘Move along. My turn.’ Every morning I
wake up in that dreamlike world called Freetown and I watch my daughter bloom into this woman who amazes me, yet I keep waiting for a knock on the door that doesn’t come where that same person tells me, ‘Time’s up, honey. Clear out.’”

  She laughed at herself. “Now, every time I see this thing in the mirror, I’ll wonder if that same jealous lover is going to snap their fingers and hold out a hand.”

  “Nobody’s going to take this from you. And nobody’s going to kick you out of your room.”

  She let out a cry. “You sure?”

  I laughed. “Pretty sure.” I turned it over. “There is one thing . . .”

  Her complexion changed.

  “Mr. Harby inserted a chip. It allows me to—”

  “Don’t tell me you’re—”

  I continued, “Track you for seven days from the moment I turn it on.”

  “I was afraid you were going to say that.”

  “Only if I need to find you.”

  Her reaction wasn’t much better.

  I pointed. “It looks like a diamond.”

  Her suspicion spread. “You do this to the girls’ gifts too?”

  I shrugged.

  “Some might accuse you of being paranoid.”

  “One man’s paranoia is another man’s preparation.”

  “Cute. Who taught you that?”

  “Bones.”

  “Figures.” Her eyes narrowed. “How do you turn it on?”

  “Satellite.”

  “Seriously?” She pointed up. “From forty miles in space?”

  I calculated. “Something like that.”

  “So . . . you click a few keys and X marks the spot?”

  “I think it’s more of a red flashing thing.”

  She frowned. “And here I am thinking you’re being all romantic.”

  I tried to explain. “There are evil people out there who would love to hurt you because you mean something to me.”

  “Something?”

  As the sun fell westward of the Intracoastal, bathing us in soft light, I spoke over the memory of me. Something I’d been in the habit of doing lately—looking backward. “When I was a kid, nothing but cutoffs and sun-bleached hair, I fell in love in these waters. Somewhere within a few feet of us, I gave Marie me. Not some portion, but the piece that holds all of me.” I paused as the daylight fell to dusk.

  “Over the years, after Marie left . . . I would look inside me and stare into the hole and wonder how to live. What would fill it? I tried to drown it in drink, but that couldn’t touch it. Only made me more thirsty. So I crawled into my basement and turned to my pen. And when I grew tired, I would turn out the light, board up my secrets, and poke my head above the surface. Then Bones found me, patched me up, and I poured myself into my work. Wasn’t difficult. Living numb made me better at my job. That’s not to say I didn’t care about the people I searched for—I did and still do. But not like . . .” I faded off.

  “A decade passed. Writer. Rescuer. Twenty-four-seven.” I stared at her. Studying the quiver in her eyes. “No matter how many boards I nail across the hole, I can’t kill the ache. Something still lives down there. Something unkillable in the darkness. Maybe we’re all born with that. Maybe it’s part of being this thing we call human. The ache for another. The desire to reach into the night and find someone’s hand reaching back. To wake to the sound of someone breathing in your ear. To know the warmth of another. To pour two cups of coffee.”

  I held her at arm’s length, waiting until her watery eyes focused on mine. The uncertainty told me that while I’d published more than a million and a half words, I wasn’t connecting. Summer was scared of what I was about to say.

  I shook my head, speaking as much to myself as her. “Why is it I can write what I mean but seldom say it?” I tried a second time. “When I was a kid looking out across my future, I didn’t see the me I’ve become. The one I see staring back at me. I didn’t see scars and tattoos and memories I can’t ever share with you. I saw someone else, and I’m not him. I want you to take a long look at me. Despite the fact that Angel is safe, I wonder if I am. Is being with me unsafe? Something broke me long ago. I walk with a limp. And after all I’ve seen, I don’t believe people are good. There’s no gray. I see black and white and often the image is fuzzy, so I make split decisions on partial information and I’m constantly forced to live with the consequences of that. I’ve seen things I can’t . . .” I shook my head.

  She held my face in both her hands. “Murph . . .”

  I was studying the shoreline.

  Her tone of voice changed. She whispered, “David Bishop Murphy.”

  My name brought me back. I looked down at her. The memory of our meeting returned. She tried to speak but I cut her off. “Remember how when we first met and I took you to that diner—”

  “And you told me that water can be dangerous when you don’t swim?”

  “Actually, I was thinking more about the part where you told me that life can be sucky when you don’t know how to dance.”

  “Oh.” She smiled. “That part.”

  “You told me how you lived with the hope that you weren’t condemned to live and die alone on the Island of Misfit Toys.”

  I was trying to finish my thought when she kissed me, then leaned into me, staring out across the water. “I’m not going anywhere. You’re safe with me, and I’ve never felt safer than when I’m with you. There are no bad men on this beach or in this water. You can say whatever you want to say. Whatever you need to.” She tapped the cross and then held me tight, pressing her chest to mine, her breath on my face. “I’m not in this for what I get. I’m here for you. I want the you who is standing right here. All of you. Even the broken, busted pieces.” She flipped the cross over. “And if you ever turn this thing on and the screen doesn’t show me next to you, then somebody has taken me from you.” She smiled. “And I’m not a willing participant.”

  I thought back to our first real conversation in the all-night diner after I’d picked the oyster shells out of her back. I tried to speak softly. “I would like to bring you coffee in the mornings. Finish your sentences. Protect you from the world that wants to hurt you.”

  She smiled. “You already do those things.”

  I lifted the second blue box out of my jacket and raised the lid. “Then dance with me. For the rest of our lives.” Summer eyed the ring, covered her mouth, and let go the remaining floodgate. Her knees buckled and she collapsed, the once shin-deep water now cradling her hips. And in that instant, that painful picture of her now washed in the water reminded me that a change in circumstances doesn’t render someone whole. Only one thing does that.

  I knelt, eye level, and waited while what had been bottled up most of her life poured out. A pouring she could not control. It was a shoulder-shaking, soul-purging cry. Evidence that it had been stuffed down in there a long time.

  I’m no expert, but in my limited experience, women aren’t born women. They start out as girls. And every girl, from the moment they can dream, imagines the rescue. The knight. The castle. Life in a fairy tale. If you don’t believe me, watch boys and girls on a playground. No one teaches us to do this. The kid in us actually believes in things that are too good to be true. Before life convinces us we can’t and they’re not.

  Then life kicks in. Boys become men. Girls become women. For any number of reasons we are wounded and, sadly, wounded people wound people. So many of us grow into doubting, hopeless, callous adults protecting hardened hearts. Medicating the pain. Life isn’t what we imagined. Nor are we. And we didn’t start out trying to get there. Far from it. But it’s who we’ve become. One day we turn around, and what we once dreamed or hoped is a distant echo. We’ve forgotten what it sounded like. Once pure and unadulterated, the voice of hope is now muted by all the stuff we’ve crammed on top of it. And we’re okay with that. For some illogical reason, we stand atop the mine shaft of ourselves, shoving stuff into the pipe that is us, telling our very soul, “Shut up. Not
another word.” Why? Because the cry of our heart hurts when unanswered. And the longer it remains unanswered, the deeper the hurt. In self-protection we inhale resignation and exhale indifference.

  Summer’s cry had never been answered. If hope deferred makes the heart sick, then Summer’s heart had been sick a long time.

  But not everything we bury is dead. Some stuff is just buried beneath the rubble. Lying in the dark, muted, waiting in hope for another to peel back the rocks. Some shake their fist and categorically reject the notion of the fairy tale. They’re not in need of rescue. Never have been. That would suggest being dependent upon another. Which they are not. And it’s sexist to suggest they are.

  But I say we are. Designed to do life “with” rather than “without.”

  Summer had been waiting a long time for another to come along and offer his heart without reservation. And ask for hers without manipulation. Summer was shaking in the water because, all her life, she’d hoped against hope that the voice was true. That she wasn’t crazy. That maybe, just maybe, the music would play and some guy would tap her on the shoulder and lead her across the dance floor.

  No longer was she relegated to a seat along the wall, excluded from the floor—or worse yet, teaching others how to dance. I was inviting her to center stage.

  To dance with me.

  And so I waited while she said nothing. I sat in the water that birthed me, wrestling with her silence, rewinding my words in my head. But words are like bullets. Once they exit the barrel, it’s impossible to bring them back.

  After a minute, I spoke again. “Summer, I’m sorry . . . I saw this happening differently in my mind’s eye. I tried to say it right and I know I didn’t. I wanted to—”

  She shook her head, but no words came. After a few seconds, she held up a finger. The universal sign for “give me a minute.”

  So I did. Then another. Then one more.

  Finally, she sat on her heels, her shoulders relaxed now, a slight smile creasing her lips. “It was perfect.”

  “It was?”

  She nodded and wiped her face and nose. “I thought you were telling me you didn’t want me, and you were just trying to break it to me easy.”