The Miracle Letters of T. Rimberg

by Geoff Herbach

  Please forgive me.

  T. Rimberg

  Letter 14

  September 3, 2004

  * * *

  Dear Jennie Evans,

  How are you? Are you married? I have kids, Jennie. Maybe you do, too.

  And, I swear to God, in April of 1987, I did not dump the case of Michelob bottles on your front lawn because you narc'ed on the BEER BLAST at the quarry. I simply needed to get rid of the bottles before I got home, and your house happened to be on the way to Molly Fitzpatrick's house (my girlfriend at the time, you might remember). I'm intrigued, though, by your decision to narc on a party filled with jocks older than you and serious bitches. Small towns don't take to that kind of behavior very well, you know? And they made your life hell in high school, huh? Hope things got better. I assume they did. Can't get much worse than Todd Klein calling you a bitch and hacking tobacco spit on your locker every day.

  Why did you do it? Were you morally against beer? Did you hope to gain something with the teachers? Letters of recommendation or something? Was it out of spite—the little power you could have over dumbassed upperclassmen? Were you trying to save lives, keep the drunk drivers off the road? It was just such an odd choice for a high school girl to make, you know? Do you ever think of it anymore, making that choice? Whatever—I didn't give a crap that you narc'ed on that party. Who fucking cares? Certainly not me. If you would've busted me, I would have kissed you on the lips. I'd like to right now—I'm excessively high.

  I have kids and an ex-wife and I'm smoking pot with this kid who has eyes that sort of remind me of yours. Watery.

  And I didn't mean to freak your shit out when I dumped the Michelob bottles in the ditch in front of your house, and the fact that your dad caught me on the way back up the hill and asked me to roll down my window and then hit me in the head with the bottles should be enough payback, should even out the game, and I wouldn't have even cared he hit me in the head with bottles, might not even remember it, because I was drunk pretty often, even though I functioned all right . . . I might not even remember except when I realized whose house it was, I came in to apologize, to tell you it was a sincere accident, and you were totally sobbing in there, wrapped in a ball on the couch at eleven o'clock at night on a Saturday, even though you were sixteen. I guess you thought I was one of the good kids because I wasn't mean to you ever, and then I dumped those bottles, huh? It must have been a shock, like everybody in the whole world was out to get you. I swear to God I wasn't, and you were crying, and your dad, who was so angry when he hit me in the head with the bottles, started to breathe hard, too, his eyes all wet, and I can't fucking take it, Jennie. I can't.

  Not that it matters now, but I wasn't dumping bottles to torture you. It was just to get rid of them so I didn't have Michelob bottles in the trunk of my mom's car.

  God, all the terror in life, small and big, and you crying, and your dad . . . it makes me want to die, because I don't want to see my daughters ever cry like that. I don't want to see my daughters cry. I'm sorry.

  T. Rimberg

  Letter 15

  September 3, 2004

  * * *

  Dear Charlie Hyde,

  I hope this letter finds you alive. In first grade, when I punched you in the face after school, primarily because other kids mistreated you and I wanted to be like other kids, I felt very bad. When you were crying and saying you were going to tell your mom and you were bleeding in the snow and I was on top of you, pinning your arms down while I repeatedly punched you in the nose, I almost got sick. I cried at home afterward, but couldn't tell my mom why, because she would've taken me to your house to apologize, which I couldn't do—part of me wanted to kill you. I stayed in my bed for two days and wouldn't eat. My pillow got soaked with snot and tears, which is disgusting. You know, my dad ran away around that time and I was sad a lot. I think some of the rage and my ability to beat you stupid came from this. Also, nobody came over to my house when I was a kid because they were afraid of my brother, plus they didn't like me that much. But, that's no excuse and the fact is I'm very sorry, even though I hit you like that, I would rather have had you come over to my house to play with cars and have a snack or whatever, but instead I punched your poor little boy lights out, because other kids thought it appropriate to hate you, and I was sad and angry generally. You were an innocent bystander. Life is terrible. People are horrible and brutal. Charlie (that's my son's name, too), I hate that I punched you. I'm sorry.

  T. Rimberg

  Letter 16

  September 3, 2004

  * * *

  Dearest Pastor Gergen,

  I found your name on the Internet, which God hath made for us. Congratulations on your appointment. First English seems like a good church, Pastor. There were lots of wealthy congregants there in my time (small town wealthy, e.g., fat lawyers and funeral directors).

  I need to tell you something.

  When I was in grade school, after my father, a Jew, disappeared from the family, in a fit of Christian sentimentalism associated with the honey-soaked memories of her Catholic upbringing, my mother made me attend the summer camp run by your church, and something horrifying happened to me. Now, Pastor, you weren't the flock's shepherd at that time, so I don't blame you for the matter—in fact, Pastor Olmquist, whom I do blame, is likely dead (you'd know that better than me) (if so, may he rest in peace . . . after he pay-eth for the sins he did commit). But I wanted to bring this to your attention so that you could prevent similar malodorous treatments of the young-bodied and -minded in the present and future. Kids have got to be protected.

  In the year nineteen hundred and eighty-one, a certain dim-bulbed twenty-something camp counselor by the name of Larry Graham—forgive him for he knew not what he did-eth and, really, he was a helluva nice guy—made a point of telling campers in the fifth-grade cabin that blasphemy is a Cardinal sin and Cardinal sins are those most terrible sins that cannot, will not be forgiven, under any circumstances, and even if God Himself feels like forgiving them, He won't because forgiving those would be breaking His law, going back on His word, so even if you are a decent person in every other way outside of your one instance of blasphemy, a Cardinal sin, God has no choice but to condemn you to eternal damnation and the searing fires that accompany it. When young Mr. Larry Graham was asked by one camper to define blasphemy so that his charges might avoid committing blasphemy, he said: “Uh, hmm. It's like if you said, ‘I hate God.’ ”

  “You just said it!” Tommy Banfield shouted.

  “As an example!” Mr. Larry Graham retorted.

  “Doesn't matter,” I told him. “God can't forgive you. He probably wants to, but he can't.”

  Counselor Larry Graham turned an institutional white, and when we kept arguing, he marched us off into darkness to see The Man Himself, Pastor Olmquist, in order to get an official ruling on the matter.

  It was ten p.m. So dark and misty that night, so the group campfire had been canceled and all of the cabins in the wood-chipped loop were dark, except our own. It was mighty dark and only Larry Graham had a flashlight, and we, all of us eleven years old mind you, followed Larry Graham so closely that we stepped on his sandaled feet and on each other's feet, because we were certain Satan lingered in the woods around us and God had forsaken us due to the blaspheming in our cabin, and we were practically hugging one another as we walked. Several of us whimpered. It was a brutal hike.

  Pastor's cabin was two hundred yards into the woods off the loop and we could hear music as we approached—I recognize it as Chopin now. There were no lights on in that cabin, but Larry Graham still knocked on the door, and Pastor Olmquist whispered, Come in, and we did, and I think I remember the smell of whiskey in there, and Pastor sat alone in the almost-dark of a short-wicked kerosene lamp listening to music, handling God-only-knows what kind of emotional baggage.

  Larry Graham asked him the question (as all of us huddled behind him, cowering in the shadows): “If I say ‘I hate God' as an example of
blasphemy, have I committed blasphemy?”

  Pastor Olmquist paused, lifted his eyes, shook his head almost imperceptibly, then said: “Do you believe in God, Larry?”

  “Yes, sir. Yes, I believe.”

  “And what makes you believe in God, Larry?”

  “Faith, sir. Faith is all we have.”

  “Then,” said Pastor Olmquist, who was already seventy, I'd guess, and had flames of white hair that fired off the sides of his head, “let your faith be your guide. You know if you've committed that sin. You know in your soul. And so does God. How can I answer what is between you and God?”

  “But I was trying to teach—”

  “Poor Larry,” Pastor said, shaking his head. “If you are unsure in your soul, perhaps you already have your answer.”

  “So . . . I . . . what . . .”

  Pastor Olmquist pushed himself up from the table and whispered, pointing to the door, “Go on. You're violating curfew. Go.”

  We ran en masse from the cabin, all of us crying in the cold north wind and intensifying drizzle. And later, much later, I heard Counselor Larry Graham holding back sobs in his counselor bunk.

  And that night, deeper into the night, Pastor Gergen, I heard a little voice in my head. I assume now it was my own treacherous subconscious, but was sure at the time it was Satan's tempting voice, rumbling deep, like the farts of the dead.

  “I hate . . . I hate . . . I hate . . . —Oh Satan be gone!—I hate . . . I hate . . .” I fought and fought against thinking the words I hate God, and didn't sleep much the rest of the week, and didn't sleep much when I got home from camp either. In fact, I didn't sleep much for most of my sixth-grade year. I spent my energy working, working not to give in to Satan's prompts, not to finish that horrible sentence, not to suffer eternal damnation as poor, kind Larry Graham would. And the pressure in my soul built and built and built, and my sixth-grade studies suffered, and I did not partake in recess horseplay. I only sat in the grass, next to the redbrick school, straining with all my fiber not to say “I hate God.” But sometime late in spring, late in the night, hot tears running down my face, pressure radiating down my arms, my bedsheets twisted around me, soaked in sweat, I finally just let it rip: “I hate God!” I shouted, “I hate God!” and then I cried and missed a week of school. I was convinced I would burn in the eternal fires of Hell. I was never a real kid again.

  Holy Christ, Pastor Gergen! The Very Reverend Pastor Olmquist committed a huge crime, don't you think? Who knows what became of poor Camp Counselor Larry Graham. Why didn't Reverend Olmquist absolve him, all of us?

  I've spoken to other campers from my cabin that summer who had similar sixth-grade experiences, though less intense than mine. And mine, Pastor Gergen . . . mine. I had no father and a brother who detested me and a mother who had to work and work and work to keep food on the table. And then God hated me? Oh shit!

  I don't know what I'm getting at exactly. I guess, just be careful. You bastards have a lot of power and I'm having terrible nightmares about Jews being murdered and I've had waking nightmares, my real life, in which I replay my own terrible, real, sins and I don't think I can be absolved and I want to get this shit off my chest, get rid of the brutality that has been done unto me and done by me, done unto everyone.

  I have to go.

  Don't bother writing back, as I'll be buried in some boneyard when you get this.

  Thanks, Hank!

  T. Rimberg

  Day Four:

  Transcript 5

  * * *

  I just get sick . . . I get overcome when I think about vulnerable kids, or people in general, getting hurt by . . . Using God as a weapon!

  I don't know what I'm talking about. Do you know what I'm talking about?

  It did start me thinking about God and religion . . . that stuff. The Lutheran letter opened up that topic. When I wrote to Jesus, I was just drunk.

  Is that why you're talking to me, Barry? God?

  You're wrong. Not everybody survived the accident. I remember.

  Right. The driver didn't survive.

  Letter 17

  To the Manager, White Castle, St. Louis Park

  September 4, 2004

  * * *

  Dear Sir or Madam:

  Last June my son and I ate at your restaurant. Two lovely young women served us: a thin very blond girl with a nose ring and a short, stout African-American girl. The two were very sweet to my son and were having such a good time with one another, making jokes, singing to songs on the radio, it almost made me believe that race and class barriers in this country might one day be destroyed entirely. It was lovely to hear them laugh, like listening to celestial music, really. I ate thirteen sliders, had a great time with my kid, and went to bed so satisfied that night. I've often had a good time at your store. The teenagers who work there are always so happy. They make everyone else happy. Don't know how you do it. Keep up the good work.

  Sincerely,

  T. Rimberg

  P.S. Any coupons should be forwarded to my wife and children at 3XXX Pleasant Ave., Minneapolis, MN 55408, as I have killed myself since writing this letter.

  Day Five:

  Transcript 1

  * * *

  Well . . . Uh, yeah . . . Okay—let me . . . I'm in love with love . . . But I'm not a good partner to anyone . . . I wasn't faithful to my wife.

  Pray? No. Never. To whom would I address this prayer?

  Oh yes, God!

  I did pray once. I woke up with a dream. This little terrified girl was next to me, holding my hand . . . I could hear the sound of a train, this train beginning to roll, and I knew it was filled with people all packed together so they couldn't breathe, and I cried, Please, let everything not be real. But I knew it was real and God couldn't make it go away. What does prayer have to do with love?

  Connection to something sublime. So pretty. Well put, Father Barry.

  I'm not. Especially after the accident . . . especially after hearing about these “patterns of light” yesterday . . . You think I might be interested in God . . . Nope.

  I'm learning to do light cooking. My body is a temple.

  Yes, Mary did call.

  I did speak with Charlie. It's been almost a year. I haven't called since I left Minneapolis.

  It wasn't my intention, exactly. I mean I went to Europe planning not to come back, and then time passes and it becomes . . . embarrassing or terrifying. Weak stuff, I know.

  It was good for me. Very strange after a year to hear Charlie's voice, although he wasn't exactly . . . I'd prefer, if it's okay . . .

  My daughters wouldn't get on the phone. Can we talk about . . .

  No, I didn't watch TV last night. I'm not interested in the patterns of light, and I'm not interested in God.

  Actually, I'm not that interested in Europe, either.

  Journal Entry,

  September 6, 2004

  * * *

  This morning, kitchen sun, coffee, too tired. Slept through the night without dreaming about the apartment, because Chelsea . . . Chelsea in your dreams, which were soft dreams and you woke up and felt for her, then felt again her being away.

  And the empty spot without Chelsea, the hole, made you mean.

  Then Cranberry at the breakfast table, little asshole, wanted a haircut. You said you'd pay for it, but he refused, said it was dumb to pay someone. Everybody has scissors.

  “I have no scissors,” you told him.

  He stood, walked to the cutlery block, pulled out a knife, and started sawing at his mohawk, glaring at you.

  You said, “Goddamn it, stop.” You stood, slammed a kitchen chair onto the floor, said: “Don't you ruin my mother's knife.”

  He dropped the knife on the counter, clattering. He moved to the chair, sat, face flushed. You scolded him for the knife disrespect.

  “Jesus, so fucking sorry,” he shouted.

  “Don't shout,” you shouted.

  Moved to the utensil drawer. Told him that Dad purchased thos
e knives in Chicago on a business trip, just before he left. That you remember him bringing them home. How much Mom loved those knives, said, “Oh what beautiful knives.” So pleased with the measly gift. You took an old kitchen scissor out of the utensil drawer, which smelled moldy, unclean, smelled like Mom in the old people home. Your face got hot. Mom's gone.

  “Where is your dad? Dead?” Cranberry asked.

  “Have to spray down your hair. It's hard as rock.”

  Pulled the nozzle from the sink. Turned on the water. Sprayed his head.

  “Is your dad dead?” he shouted, the noise of water splashing. His eyes closed tight. Water splashing on you and the floor.

  “Maybe. Probably.”