"Shoo!" she would say when she found some of Andrea's friends. "Go home! Go home and eat with your family. They haven't seen you in so long they've forgotten what you look like."
"Okay, Mrs. Newland," they'd answer in a mournful chorus, and then they'd gather up their shoes and socks and various other pieces of discarded clothing, their magazines, hair dye, book bags and stuffed animals, their guitars and amplifiers, drum sets and penny whistles and go, casting reproachful looks behind them. They didn't seem to take it personally, though, because so far as I could tell, the same ones would show up again the next day.
But F, I knew, was a more sensitive soul than the usual run of Andrea's friends. Perhaps Mother had singled him out for particular attention.
"You, F! [Fred? Felix? Ferdinand? What could his name be?]," she might have said, "Go home this minute! Your mother tells me she's going to report your disappearance to the Missing Persons Bureau."
And he, convinced that the FBI would shortly be on his track, had left, never to return. It seemed only too likely.
Even Kirsty might have insulted him somehow. Lately she had begun to toss her rather limp brown hair contemptuously over her shoulder and make rude remarks to people in faithful imitation of Andrea.
Tender-hearted Kirsty had shifted her sympathies almost entirely from the human race to the lower animals. She had become a vegetarian and was apt to be critical of the hamburger-devouring hordes around her. I could easily imagine her abusing my poor F for even looking at a baloney sandwich in her presence.
"Carnivore! Flesheater! Bloodsucker!"
No wonder he had fled from our house. I began to feel very sorry for F, and then for myself. How could my family be so heartless? My tears spilled out once again. As I sobbed, I reflected that if my life did not take a happier turn pretty soon, I would have to start including more fluids in my diet. The way things were going, I was likely to become dehydrated in no time.
For the first time in my life, I became restless, bored with the sameness of life behind the wall. I began to entertain crazy thoughts of leaving the wall, of going out into the world in search of F. But this was out of the question. Beyond the absurdity of my leaving this house, which had been a place of refuge all my life, how would I set about finding him? Ask every male I met: "Excuse me, sir, but would your name happen to begin with the letter F?" The whole idea was obviously ridiculous.
Yet something was stirring in me, something stronger than a whole lifetime of shyness. This longing had seized hold of me like a dog seizing a rat, and its grip did not slacken as the endless days went by with no word from F.
And then one day the crack was empty.
I stared, unbelieving. The cloth was gone. I searched carefully on the floor to make sure it hadn't fallen out, but no, the floor was bare. Then I began to worry that it had fallen the other way, onto the hall floor. I peered nervously out of the crack. No, I couldn't see anything, but it was hard to be sure.
Who had taken it, if anyone had? Maybe it had fallen out and been swept or vacuumed up. Maybe ... maybe someone who wasn't F had found it and was even now entertaining a large group of rowdy teenagers with my little message. Or maybe it was F who was laughing over it now with his friends. Maybe F was just joking about loving me. Maybe F thought it was funny to write phony love letters to shy, inexperienced girls. Maybe...
I was a nervous wreck.
I twisted my hands wretchedly and tried to keep from making any sudden moves. These days, any impulsive movement was likely to result in bumps, bruises, and splinters.
I think you are very brave, I quoted to myself bitterly. How stupid! Why did I say such an idiotic thing?
Please, won't you tell me who you are? How prim and prissy I sounded. Andrea, for instance, would never have answered a love letter like that.
Andrea! How I wished I could have asked her for advice. She was so sophisticated, so knowledgeable about the world. She would have known exactly what to say.
I should have—
I heard a faint rasping sound. I whirled around and stared at the wall. It was back! Something had been pushed into the crack. I listened to footsteps, his footsteps, receding down the hall. If I had taken the letter immediately and peeked out, I might have seen him, but, frozen, I didn't move until all was silent again. Then I snatched it up.
It wasn't cloth. This was paper. I felt in the pocket where I always carried F's letter. It had become worn with reading and rereading by now. It was still there. This was another letter.
From F? I unfolded it. There was much more writing this time. I looked down at the signature.
F, it said, with a bold flourish.
"Oh!" I gasped in delight, and sank back in my chair to enjoy it.
This is what it said:
Dear A,
Omygod, A! I had no idea you'd ever find that letter. I just liked the idea of my letter being here in the walls of your house, crumbling away to bits, maybe, sixty years from now when you're an old woman and I'm an old man. Stupid, I know, but—I swear I never thought you'd find it. Here I am, babbling on. No, I'm sorry, I won't tell you who I am. I'm glad you think I'm brave, but I'm not. And if you knew who I was, you'd agree that cowardice is my best policy when it comes to talking to a girl like you.
How smart and funny and clever of you to answer the way you did! In embroidery, I mean. It's the last thing I'd expect you to do. You are absolutely amazing.
Sincerely yours,
F
P.S. If the person reading this letter isn't A, I hope you burn in Hell for all eternity. Reading other people's mail is the act of a blob of pond scum.
P.P.S. I don't care who reads this letter, Andrea Megan Newland (See? I even know your middle name), I LOVE YOU.
I read this missive through and then read it once again; slowly, carefully, registering every comma and period, down to the last postscript.
He didn't love me. He had never loved me. It was Andrea all along.
So. The obvious thing to do was to forward his entreaties to my all-conquering sister and then write back to him, telling him that his love letters had in fact been intercepted by a blob of pond scum.
It was the right thing to do.
But every time I thought of Andrea I felt a tight, burning sensation somewhere in my middle. At first I couldn't identify the feeling. It reminded me of images I had seen on TV, little drawings of the digestive tract showing acids churning around, eating holes in the stomach lining. Eventually it dawned on me that what I was feeling was anger.
Immediately I felt guilty. After all, Andrea probably had no idea of the pain she was inflicting. She wasn't doing anything but being herself. Was it Andrea's fault that F had fallen for her? No, of course not. It was wrong of me to feel anger toward her. And yet—
I thought of her, surrounded by admirers, and the bitter black bile climbed up my throat until I thought I would choke on it.
And F ... I kept forgetting that it had always been Andrea he loved. There was nothing unfaithful or inconstant about his behavior; I hadn't been jilted at all. So, of course it wasn't his fault either. It was no one's fault but my own. I should have known that the letter wasn't for me. How could it have been? He'd never even known that I existed.
Stupid! I am so stupid!
Oh, F.
Eight
Dear A,
Honest, I'd tell you my name if I could. Is that why you're not answering my letter? I've been checking every day.
Anxiously yours,
F
Dear A,
A?
Are you still there?
I promise I won't write your name out like that again for anybody to see. I realize that was an incredibly stupid thing to do and I'm really sorry. (Is that what you're upset about?)
Please answer this letter. I know you got the others because they were gone when I looked later. Okay, so I'm acting like an idiot, but gimme a break, will you? I'm grovelling here.
Miserably yours,
F
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It had been a week since I had received F's answer to my letter. I still had done nothing; I had taken no action at all.
Unfortunately, these last two letters did nothing to make him less attractive. On the contrary, he had begun to take shape as a human being, and now I liked him for his own sake, not just for his supposed passion for me.
He was shy, as I had thought, but his emotions were both strong and true. In fact, his last unhappy letter almost broke my heart. And that too was my fault. I was the reason he signed it "Miserably yours," not Andrea. He was suffering because of me.
Now, Anna, I said to myself sternly, stop behaving like a fool and a coward. Take a piece of paper and a pen and write the poor young man a letter explaining the mistake you made. Go on, do it.
Reluctantly I picked up pen and paper and began to write. But, I thought rebelliously, I won't give his letters to Andrea.
I signed my letter and read it over. To my dismay, I found that it wasn't at all the letter I had planned to write.
Dear F,
I'm sorry I haven't written. I have just a few questions:
Do you like raisins?
Do you have any food allergies?
What is your neck size?
How long is your arm? Please measure along your arm from the back of your neck to your wrist with your arm slightly bent.
What is your favorite color?
Are you dark or light?
Thank you very much.
Sincerely,
A
I don't know how to tell you this.
I put that letter in the crack. I am deeply ashamed of myself, but that is what I did.
Oh, I made all sorts of excuses. My letter didn't actually claim to be from Andrea, for instance. Also, I would be much nicer to him than Andrea would be. There was no denying that Andrea could be rather curt with her suitors, whereas I would shower him with loving kindness, raisin bran muffins, and exquisitely tailored shirts. I only wanted to make him happy. He would be happy too, believing that Andrea returned his love. And I—well, I, of course, would be in a state of ecstasy.
Naturally, though, none of these excuses were good enough. Assuming that I could convince him it was bright, beautiful Andrea writing to him instead of dull, plain Anna, wasn't that simply setting the stage for disaster? After receiving so much encouragement from Andrea (as he thought), wouldn't he someday be tempted to speak openly to her? Or what if instead he simply made some sly reference from our correspondence to the real Andrea, only to be met with blank incomprehension or ridicule?
No, the truth is that I was being selfish, plain and simple. If he thought I wasn't Andrea, he wouldn't answer my letter, so I allowed him to think I was Andrea. I simply couldn't bear to lose all contact with him. And I couldn't bear for him to think of me as a blob of pond scum, even though that is what I truly am.
After I left the note, I went away and stayed in the back of the house for the rest of the day. When I came back the next morning, I was disappointed to see that the letter was still there. Wistfully I pulled it out to reread it.
"Dear A," (it began).
It was from F, and it was two pages long! He had taken my letter, read it, and responded. With trembling hands I flattened it out and read:
Dear A,
Hmmmmmm. Well, okay ... here goes.
Yes, I like raisins. Basically, I like food.
No, I have no food allergies. Otherwise, I am allergic to wool and some kind of detergent my mom used one time a few weeks ago to wash the laundry.
5-inch neck (approximately—it's hard to tell where to start and stop measuring). My ears are each three inches long. I only mention it because this seems to be the kind of information you want. My nose is two inches long.
32-inch arm. I had to ask my father for help with this. He thinks I'm nuts, but then he thought that anyway. I'm not sure which arm you are particularly interested in, so I'll throw in the measurements for both. They're the same.
When I was a kid I used to love blue. I still do, but now I think my favorite color is brown.
This is a great question. Am I dark or light? I assume you are referring to my spiritual orientation, right? I would love to say dark—it sounds so much more interesting. Compared to most people, I probably am on the dark side. But I guess I'm both dark and light. Come to think of it, it's the contrast between light and shadow that's interesting, isn't it?
On the other hand, this may be a fishing question about my physical appearance. Since I am so grateful to you for answering my letters (at last!), I'll tell you. I am dark. My dad says we have some American Indian and Italian blood on his side of the family. So yes, I'm dark skinned and dark eyed.
If you don't mind my saying so, this is a very weird game you're playing. Do you really think you can guess my identity this way? The only question that might have been useful was the last one.
I'm not complaining, you understand. I'm amazed. You are so much more interesting than I thought. Not that I didn't think you were interesting before, because boy, did I! No, but there's a whole other part of your personality I never imagined.
If there are any more measurements or food preferences you would like to know about, let me know. In any case, PLEASE ANSWER THIS LETTER RIGHT AWAY IF NOT SOONER!
Yours (but holding a large butterfly net carefully concealed behind my back in case you try something funny),
F
P.S. I have a question of my own. What do you think of Mr. Albright?
What a wealth of information there was in that letter! Some of it I simply didn't understand (what, for instance, did he mean by the concealed butterfly net in his closing?), but overall I was delighted with my letter.
When I first read it, I thought I had a foolproof clue to his identity. I also thought I understood his reluctance to speak to Andrea in person. It was certainly going to be a challenge sewing him a dress shirt, though. Frankly, anybody with a neck that only measures five inches around is practically a freak of nature. Talk about a pencil neck! What size did he take in hats, I wondered? And how did he swallow his food?
Thinking things over, though, I decided that he had misinterpreted my request. He might have measured the length of his neck. Knowing nothing about sewing, he probably didn't understand which measurements were necessary. That would also explain his offering measurements of his ears and nose. And, of course, I never actually told him that I planned to sew him a shirt.
I was pleased to see him so open-minded about food. While I pride myself on pleasing the fussiest of appetites, there is no doubt that food allergies and aversions place obstacles in the way of the creative chef. It did look as if my half-formed plan to knit him a sweater would have to be cancelled, however, since he couldn't wear wool.
The letter also gave me plenty of hints about his personality and situation in life. His family, I saw, contained at least three people: his mother, his father, and himself. They seemed fond of him, too: his mother washed F's laundry, even though with inappropriate laundry detergents (which brand, I wondered?), and his father measured F's arms when requested to do so, even while expressing doubts as to F's sanity.
I sighed. Lucky F, to have a father actually in the house rather than lost forever in the storage stacks of the Library of Congress.
The introduction of this Mr. Albright struck a somewhat unsettling note. Perhaps he was a teacher? The name sounded faintly familiar; I was sure I'd heard it mentioned recently. The first name, I thought, was Frank. But what role Mr. Frank Albright might play in Andrea's life I could not imagine.
Remembering the request for a prompt response, I dashed off a quick note:
Dear F,
Tell me, how do you feel about coconut? Personally, I don't like it very much, but I know that many people enjoy it.
I found everything you had to say in your letter very interesting, especially about your "spiritual orientation," as you call it. I guess I'd have to say that my spirit is more dark than light. In fact, sometimes I feel
that the dark is my only friend. I hate to bother you, but could you please measure your neck again? This time measure around your neck instead of up and down. Thank you. I really appreciate it.
Sincerely,
A
I decided not to say anything about this Mr. Albright. I might guess wrong and give everything away. With any luck F would forget his question.
After posting the note, I did a quick carpentry job on the hall closet. I fixed the shelf on the back wall onto a central pivot so that it could be rotated like a lazy Susan, facing either into my secret room or into the closet. I installed a sturdy latch on my side so that no one would ever accidentally knock it ajar and discover my private place.
The crack was all very well as a mail box for letters, but objects could never be exchanged through it. My new revolving shelf would give me a way to deliver the gifts I planned to make for F in perfect safety. Still, standing there admiring my workmanship once it was completed, I experienced a momentary qualm, a feeling not unlike a cold draft blowing at the nape of my neck. The revolving shelf was a door from the heart of my home into the outside world. And latch or no latch, that door swung both ways.
Impatiently I dismissed my fears, squeezed myself up through the passageway into the attic, and settled down to a leisurely examination of my sewing materials. I stroked the fabrics meditatively as I watched the sun set over the town through the dusty attic windows.
Reviewing my supply of magazines and clothing store ads from the newspapers, I realized that Andrea's male friends never seemed to wear dress shirts or three-piece suits. Usually they wore a tee shirt with some sort of advertising logo on the front. This offered no scope for my abilities at all.
What should I make for him? A plaid flannel shirt or a denim jacket with rivets? Perhaps a hand-painted tee shirt? I pondered my options one by one, taking up first one idea and then another, like a woman fingering the ornaments in her jewelry chest. It seemed to me at that moment that life could offer no greater luxury than this: the pleasure of slowly turning over in my mind which gift I would make for him first.
The Woman in the Wall Page 5