Seven Letters

by J. P. Monninger

  We found nothing. Or, rather, we found heartache and despair and hundreds of people milling about. A few children played soccer on one section of the compound, a portion of a chain-link fence forming a goal. We asked if anyone knew anything about a man named Ozzie, or even the Ferriter, but we got nothing in return. It was not productive. The distance between us—two westerners asking questions through an interpreter—was too great. Karam, for his part, did not dig. He accepted whatever anyone told him and repeated the replies to us without inflection. He did not seem interested in our search. He showed no initiative or curiosity. Maybe, I considered, he found the centers depressing and a reminder of a fate he had escaped by sheer luck. The scale of the migration, the scope of what Ozzie had confronted, coated me like a mist.

  We dropped Karam off in the center of Pozzallo in the late afternoon. He made it understood by his hesitation to leave us that he expected a gratuity. I gave him some money. He pretended surprise. Then he kissed our cheeks and went away, his phone like a dull light leading him away.

  “Who guides souls into the underworld?” Milly asked, watching him depart. “That’s our Karam.”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “I guess we should get a room. Do you want something to eat?”

  We stood in the middle of a plaza with people passing by, scooters buzzing on their way. Over there, in the camp, life went on as a desperate struggle. Here, in the town proper, daily commerce continued on as if nothing had changed or would change. I felt light-headed and furious and a thousand other emotions I couldn’t name.

  “I couldn’t eat. Not right now.”

  Milly stepped in front of me and put her hands on my shoulders. She looked me directly in my eyes. In fact, she chased my eyes with hers until I could not look away. When she spoke, she moved her forehead until it nearly touched mine.

  “We need to go home now, Kate. Soon.”

  “If I leave, then he really is dead.”

  “I know. It’s not good, but you can’t keep visiting detention centers forever.”

  “I need some word of him. Someone to say they saw him and they knew him.”

  “I understand.”

  “Is everyone around me thinking I am cracking up?”

  “No, Kate. It’s not like that. You’re letting go. It takes time.”

  “I let him go before.”

  She didn’t say anything to that. She couldn’t. That was the truth.

  “This searching is only going to make you sadder.”

  “Maybe I deserve to be sad.”

  “No one deserves to be sad, Kate. He came with a boat. He wasn’t in these camps. Maybe the Italian Navy knows more about it than these people. You can’t ask more of these people. You can’t accomplish anything right now. Even if you found out something about his death, about the boat … where would it lead you? I’m sorry, sweetie, I’m looking out for you. If you want to come back here and work on the behalf of these people, then, yes, by all means. I’ll give you a send-off party. But that’s not you right now. Not now. You’re grieving, sweetheart. You lost the love of your life. And all the king’s men, and all the king’s horses…”

  I felt myself breaking. She was right, I knew, but I couldn’t catch my breath to tell her so. In the middle of the plaza, with life all around us, I felt myself divided. I wanted to go with Karam, to be led by the soft light of his phone, to go into the underworld where I would pass a few coins to the ferryman and cross the River Styx to search for Ozzie, my Ozzie, the man whom I had cast away without knowing what I possessed.

  37

  Lawrence sent me tulips when I returned. I put them in a vase, then put them on the porch to let the ice have them. I watched each morning as they grew more and more pale, the sunlight and frost turning them into shadowy bells. I decided I did not speak Lawrence. I decided I was better off alone.

  I turned into a monk. Or whatever the female equivalent of a monk might be. A nun. I woke each morning at five and did yoga sun salutations in front of the wood stove. I bent and twisted and fasted. Then, around seven, I drove the short commute to Dartmouth and camped in my office, meeting with students, apologizing, putting my contacts there back in order. Dean Fitzgibbons, my dean, came to see me on a dull winter afternoon. Classes had almost finished for the semester, and when he came in, he shrugged out of a wonderful vicuna jacket. He was a bit of a dandy. Everyone commented on it. The vicuna coat was his trademark. He was fifty and slender, with a good head of John F. Kennedy hair. He swept it all back and kept it there. He was a handsome man, impeccably dressed, and always well-mannered.

  “You’re back,” he said, sitting in the chair usually reserved for my students. He did not bother to be asked to sit.

  “I’m back.”

  “You were gone a long time, Kate. Maybe a third left of the semester.”

  “I know it. And I apologize. I’m trying to make it up to the students now.”

  He nodded. He smiled.

  “It’s kind of a sticky situation. We’ve had complaints. Students pay a good amount of money for classes. For your class.”

  “I understand.”

  “Dartmouth has standards.”

  It was my turn to nod. Clearly, the question on the table was whether I met that standard.

  I said what I could.

  “It won’t happen again. I promise you that.”

  “Is that a promise you can keep?”

  “I believe it is.”

  He crossed his legs slowly. Being around him was like being near a fine automobile, oiled and primed, never rushed.

  “Students like your classes. That’s not an issue. If they didn’t, I suppose we wouldn’t be having this conversation. It’s this last semester that is concerning.”

  “I lost my way a little.”

  I decided on the spot not to tell him why or how I had lost my way. Maybe he knew, maybe he didn’t. I couldn’t share that with him, although perhaps he expected me to.

  He nodded. He seemed comfortable in the chair. He seemed to need to sit for a moment. I knew the various deans around campus kept up a relentless schedule. We could all use a minute to catch our breath at this time of year.

  “I had an office in this building when I first came here,” he said, looking at my office as if checking its value on the real estate market. “It’s a bit nostalgic to be back, especially at this time of year.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “I love the solstice. All the darkness contrasted against the lighted buildings. And everyone is ready to go home, but there is something wonderful about being here, too. It’s poignant. I was young here.”

  “I like it, too. The solstice.”

  He sighed. He had excellent hair.

  “You have a strong start to your career, Kate. Don’t let this happen again, okay?”

  “I won’t.”

  He started to rise.

  “What’s that picture?” he asked, pointing with his chin at a photograph I had blown up. It was a picture of the cottage in sunlight, the grass rolling in the wind toward it.

  “It’s a cottage in Ireland.”

  “Yours?”

  I nodded. I still couldn’t trust myself to talk about it.

  “Pretty place.”

  “It’s heaven.”

  He left shortly afterward. I fixed myself tea from an electric teapot. I sat with a cup of green tea and turned down the lights. Christmas was here. Dean Fitzgibbons was correct: the season stirred up all sort of emotions. I turned and looked for a long time at the cottage.

  Will you come today, or will you come tomorrow?

  I was still sitting in the near darkness when our department assistant came to my office door with a FedEx package.

  “Knock knock,” she said. “This just came for you.”

  Her name was Lily. She was short and plump and had read everything in the world. She knitted constantly and had been married to Thomas, her man, since high school. He was also short and plump. They were the happie
st couple I knew.

  “What is it?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it’s a Christmas present.”

  She smiled and left. I took out a penknife from my desk drawer and opened the package. I knew by the second cut what it was. A small note from Edna Barrow slipped out of the package and fluttered onto my lap.

  Dear, Kate:

  Here is a cover of your beautiful, beautiful book. Hold it and enjoy it. More to come.

  Edna

  The cover portrayed a chicken sitting on the roof of a thatched cottage, and in the eye of the chicken was a map of the Blasket Islands. Underneath it was my name. Two blurbs, both from historians I admired, appeared on the back. The logo from Broadman Publishing. I gazed at the cover until my tea was cold and flavorless. A book. My book. I held it against my chest and watched the darkness move across the campus. Little white lights.

  * * *

  “Congratulations,” Dr. Kaufman said when I showed her the book cover the next day. “That’s quite an accomplishment.”

  “It feels good.”

  “You should be proud.”

  “I am. I think I am. I can’t help feeling it’s part of my bargain with Ozzie. For Ozzie. That I gave up Ozzie to have this. This inanimate thing.”

  “That seems like a harsh way to look at it. It’s not either-or, is it?”

  It was midday. The birds seemed to be on lunch break. I didn’t know what I felt, honestly. That was why I kept my appointment to see Dr. Kaufman. Sometimes it helped. Sometimes it cleared my mind.

  “I was so unforgiving. So unyielding. It had to be my way or no way.”

  She looked at me. She didn’t add anything to the conversation.

  “I suppose I should stop talking about him, shouldn’t I?”

  “Talk about what you need to talk about, Kate. I don’t have a lot of shoulds in this office.”

  “I just can’t picture how I am going to go forward with a man. With any man. Not for a long time, anyway. Ozzie took that away from me.”

  “Sometimes, Kate, you talk as if other people were in charge of your life.”

  “And that’s a mistake?”

  “It’s simply not accurate. For better or worse, we’re all in charge of our own lives.”

  I nodded. I knew what she said was true, but I couldn’t digest it for the moment. Didn’t want to digest it. It was easier to imagine I was buffeted by winds I didn’t create. I took a deep breath and continued.

  “My teaching is back on track. That’s one positive to come out of this situation. I was able to sort that out. The students forgave me and so did the administration. That’s on the plus side. On the negative side, Nora, Gran, had a fall in her greenhouse. She’s in hospital now. She’s Ireland to me.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. I hope she has a speedy recovery.”

  I wanted the birds to reappear, but they didn’t.

  “Does anyone get true clarity about anything, doctor?” I asked eventually. “I’ve always wondered.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Do we ever know exactly what we want? Or even what we need? Can we ever see our lives for what they are?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know. When I was with Ozzie, he was everything. Then I let him go. He was the same person at both ends of that spectrum. I don’t understand it. Everything seems to move and change and I’m not sure how we’re supposed to be a fixed point.”

  “Who says you have to be a fixed point?”

  “I do. I guess I do. Back in the day, people didn’t have so many options. You married someone nearby and you built a house on your parents’ property and you made the best life you could. Now you can go anywhere. You can go to Ireland or southern Italy. You can meet a thousand people. Men, women, it doesn’t matter. It almost feels as if it’s too much. Expecting to settle on one life, one person, is foolish.”

  “That’s a cynical view.”

  “I’m not sure it’s my view at all. Not at all. But it’s part of my view. It’s the truth of modern life. You can go online and swipe left and right over someone’s picture as if you’re at a grocery store and people are set out on shelves. You can marry someone a world away. I don’t know if such infinite choice makes us happier.”

  I knew she wouldn’t say anything to that little treatise. She didn’t.

  I continued.

  “I had someone. And I let him go. I didn’t see him for what he was. That’s what pains me. That’s the mistake I made.”

  “Often mistakes don’t feel like mistakes as we make them.”

  “I know. I thought I was being wise and mature. Now I don’t know. Now I think I should have tried harder.”

  She smiled softly. Our time was over. She didn’t have to tell me. I stood and I swung into my coat.

  “I put up a bird feeder,” I told her. “It turns out I like watching them.”

  “They never disappoint.”

  “Do you use millet?”

  “Just sunflower seeds. If you use millet, you’ll have a pile of it by spring.”

  “And suet?”

  “Yes, suet is essential. You’ll get a better variety of birds. Woodpeckers especially.”

  I looked her in the eye.

  “I think I’m finished with these sessions, Dr. Kaufman.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I nodded.

  “I think so, too,” she said. “If you think so, I think so, too.”

  38

  Two days after Christmas, I received a call from a man who introduced himself as Jackson Sawton. He had a rough, raspy voice. I nearly hung up on him until he mentioned that he was the caretaker for a cabin in Canada that belonged in Ozzie’s holdings. His mention of the cabin rang a bell for me, but I couldn’t place it at first. I was distracted and thought perhaps he had called to sell me something. We had one of those odd, forced conversations in which neither one of us was certain he or she was speaking to the right person. But then we teased it out.

  “Up here in Ontario,” he said, his voice evincing a French-Canadian lilt. “You know the place?”

  “Cabin?”

  I couldn’t pin down what he meant. Not at first.

  “You are Miss Moretown, aren’t you?”

  “Moreton.”

  He had heavy breath on the phone.

  “The bank says your number is the one to call. I’m calling about some people living in there.”

  “Was this the cabin owned by Ozzie Ferriter?” I asked, finally nailing it down.

  “That’s right. That’s the one.”

  “And what were you saying about it? You’re the caretaker?”

  “I am. Some people are living in it and they look to be planning to stay a while. I wanted to know if they had your okay to do that.”

  “What kind of people?”

  “Nice people. But I received no notice of anything, so I wanted to make sure.”

  “Well, let me look into it, please. I’ll get back to you. Thank you for calling. Sorry about the misunderstanding at the beginning.”

  “She’ll be apples,” he said.

  I didn’t know the phrase, but I liked it.

  I took down his number and his address. I sent Nora a message and she sent one back saying the cabin belonged to Ozzie and that, if I didn’t mind, it would be worthwhile to set eyes on the place, regardless. She didn’t know much about it. I replied that I would go and take a look. I was happy to do it. It got me out of town for New Year’s and afforded me an excuse to miss any additional holiday obligations. The holidays felt empty for me. I had no plans to blow noisemakers and celebrate the New Year.

  It felt cleansing to travel north. I didn’t want easy and warm days, days with too much food and cheer. I wanted something sharper and more challenging, and when Jackson Sawton’s call came, it gave me a task, a simple, verifiable task. The cabin, once I fully understood the connection, was part of Ozzie’s legacy to me. He had mentioned it a few times in an off-handed way. So had the at
torney, Robert Smith, when we discussed Ozzie’s holdings. I had glanced at the location once on a Google map, but that was about all. It was located almost due north from Hanover, and from what my papers said, it was on a lake nearly inaccessible except by boat. Deep in Ontario. During winter months, you could snowmobile there, or take a dog team, or helicopter in, but you couldn’t drive.

  I wrote back to Jackson Sawton at his number and said I was arriving in three days.

  It took me four days. I felt lazy and sleepy. I drove eight hours a day, but on the third day I got caught in a winter storm and I had to lay over in a motel called The Buck Rack. It was a comical place, with vibrating beds still available for fifty cents, and a motel mini bar that included Budweiser and Labatt. I liked it. I ate breakfast in a diner the next morning and called Mr. Sawton. He answered on top of a whining saw or drill, and he only turned off the machine when he realized it was me.

  He gave me directions to his shop.

  But my phone gave me spotty coordinates, and I had to stop twice to ask if I had the right road. I did manage to stay on route each time, but the stops became more primitive. Pines surrounded me. I drove on a white road through a white land and only logging trucks kept me company.

  Mr. Sawton’s shop was located in a Quonset hut on the outskirts of a small settlement. An old sign above the door said Sawton’s Auto. The sign hadn’t been painted in decades. Jackson Sawton hadn’t been painted in decades, either. He wore a Carhartt mechanic’s jumpsuit, bronze-colored, over a heavy navy sweatshirt. He was tall and thick, his hands as heavy as branches when he took mine in his. He hadn’t shaved, and his beard grew pepper and frost in the bristles. He wore a red plaid hat, a cliché of a backwoodsman, with ear flaps that folded halfway down. The ear flaps gave him the appearance of a dog, its ears cocked to listen.

  “Bien venue,” he said, speaking a patois of French and English. “Glad you came to see.”

  He brought me into the shop and told me to sit. He had a few chairs arranged next to an enormous Glenwood stove. The stove burned like a sun. A boy of about eighteen sat in one of the chairs. He stood when I came near. He backed away as if I brought contagion.