Jesse Kellerman

by The Executor (v5)

  —put these theories into practice, it was in my nature to ask questions, probe the abstract, conceive of possible worlds. One could make an argument—an anemic argument but an argument nonetheless—that by acting now, I was simply securing my future, allowing myself to one day return to my writing in peace and quiet—something Alma herself had encouraged me to do. She believed in me. She told me all the time. In a certain sense, I would be carrying out her wishes. I could live in the house until I completed my dissertation—or beyond—or I could sell it and find a place of my own.... I’d never owned property. I didn’t know anything about titles and deeds. How did it work? Could Eric simply gift me a house? Wouldn’t that look suspicious? Of course it would; we’d have to let some time pass before I took possession, in the meantime I could rent it out, it’d be easy enough to find tenants, they could pay in cash. And but so now these once-harmless thoughts had grown terrifyingly specific, terrifyingly concrete, and though I’d done nothing—nothing at all except treat her well and think—I felt guilty, I felt sick, I tormented and lacerated myself, I lost my appetite, I had heartburn, I had palpitations, my head hurt, my liver hurt, I could not sleep. And while these terrifyingly specific and concrete thoughts were bad enough qua themselves, they seemed factorially worse when I realized what they said about the kind of person I’d become. Not only was I the kind of person who would marshal arguments in favor of murdering someone who had done nothing but good for him—someone he loved—but I would do so solely for material gain. It was this that frightened me most. I had grown fat and happy, drunk on comfort. I had come to take for granted that I should have food and shelter and books and beautiful objects; I had come to possess these things in my mind, so that they were not luxuries to be wary of but necessities to plan around. It was not a chair that I sat on: it was my chair

  , and, if not willing to kill for it, I was willing to allow the thought of its loss to serve as a premise for the vilest fantasies. I was impure. I was a merchant in the temple. And so I afflicted myself: I fasted. I read until the text blurred and my eyes burned. I brushed my teeth until I spat blood. I did calisthenics to exhaustion. I slept on the floor without a pillow. I took no pleasure in these exertions, like a man wallowing in a toothache. I wanted to be free. But my lust, once provoked, could not be undone: I desired. I had hardly seen any of my friends since the night of my birthday. Now I began frantically calling people, making plans, meeting for cocktails, going to movies, engaging in all manner of trifling chatter, drinking myself stupid; that is what wine is for. Still I had no peace, and as Indian summer arrived, I again took to the streets, rambling over miles, sweating through my sportcoat, smothered by heat and dust, abused by the racket of jackhammers and the clang of construction, tripping over piles of bricks laid out across the brick sidewalk, Eric’s grinning face blooming in shop windows and on strangers; and I turned and fled into the bosom of the crowds, hounded by guilt, haunted by the awareness of my own power, the knowledge that I had the capacity to do evil, even if I chose not to exercise it. One cannot fire the gun until one recognizes it exists and that it is clutched in one’s own two hands. When that happens, one wants to fire it, because that is what guns are for. And I felt guilty for feeling guilty, because I had no right to dismember myself for something I hadn’t done. All I’d done was think. What’s wrong with thinking? Was anyone ever hurt by a thought? I had no control over which images my brain chose to present to me, did I? One must distinguish theory from practice. I repeated to myself G. E. Moore’s famous proof of the existence of an external reality. “Here is a hand,” he said, holding out one palm, “and here is another.” I held my hands out. They were clean. But I could not do anything to prevent it when, at night, in my dreams, I really did kill Alma. Was that my fault? I could not stop the thoughts from coming. I dreamt of strangling her. Bludgeoning her. Stabbing her with a kitchen knife. I dreamt of riding a horse, a red-eyed horse, across her body, trampling her to death. The horse was large and fiery; its nostrils shot steam; its hooves crushed her bones to jelly. I halved her skull with an axe, spattered her brains across the carpet, wiped my hands on my shirt. I crammed pieces of paper down her throat, filling her throat with paper, her smile widening as the light left her eyes, her lips mouthing Thank you,Mr. Geist.

  “HOT AS HELL,” said Eric. “Is that my nephew?” called Alma. “Tell him to come in.” I stood aside to allow him into the entry hall, then went to my room and closed the door. I lay down on the bed and tried to nap, but I was trembling so violently that it was impossible, and anyway their voices from the library kept me awake. I was about to leave the house when Alma knocked and asked if I would be so kind as to heat up dinner. I rose to my duties, then sat at the kitchen table, pretending to work the crossword. “What’s up.” He stood before me, his lean body curved against the doorframe. “She’s taking a bath,” he said. “She’ll be down soon.” I said nothing. “Gimme a clue,” he said. Still I didn’t answer, and he sat down across from me. “Hey, I’m making conversation. Isn’t that what you do?” He sat back, laced his fingers behind his head. “Come on, let me try one.” I said nothing. “You think about what I told you?” I said nothing. “You must’ve thought about it a little.” I said nothing. He said, “I don’t know what you’re so worked up about.” “I’m not worked up.” Silence. “I’m no good at those things, anyway,” he said. I said nothing. “You know, I really think we should talk it over.” “There’s nothing to talk about.” “Sure there is.” I said nothing. “Let’s talk,” he said. I said, “I told the police.” For a moment he paled. Then the smile. “Oh, yeah?” I nodded. “What did you tell them.” “Everything you said to me.” “What did I say to you.” “You know what you said.” “No, I don’t.” “Then there’s nothing I can tell you.” He smiled again. “Didn’t I say you’re a shitty liar?” “I’m not lying.” “Okay,” he said. “Well, then, I guess we’ll have to wait and see.” “I guess so.” “You guess right. Maybe you did, maybe you didn’t. Either way, it’s okay. I mean, you can tell them whatever you want. I mean, it was your idea.” I looked at him. “Sure,” he said. “I mean, you’re the one came to me. Right? Of course you did. You’re the one asked me to make a deal. You asked for the house. So, I mean, if they’re going to come talk to me about anything, I’m going to have to tell them the truth. And the truth is that I love my auntie. I thought you did, too. But, look, man. If they ask me what happened, I’m going to have to tell them what you said.” Though I had tried to prepare myself for this moment, I still felt completely upended. “Tell them what.” “Lots of things.” “Like what.” “Oh, you know.” “No. I don’t.” “Think,” he said. “It’ll come to you.” A silence. I said, “Do you expect this to change my mind?” “I don’t know, man. Maybe. I do know that you’re a shitty liar, though. So, really, you can consider this me giving you a second chance.” I said nothing. “Up to you,” he said. “Just remember, if I feel worried, I might have to go to the police myself, first. I don’t want to have to do that, but look. It’s one way or the other. Hey, here comes the bride.” “Good evening,” Alma said. Her hair was damp. “Shall we eat?” “For sure,” Eric said. “I’m starved.” “HE EXHAUSTS ME.” Alma groaned as she sank into the sofa. I was standing near the entry hall, having just closed the door on Eric. He had winked at me again on the way out, and my mind was still spasming. Tell her. It would be so easy. Speak up. Use words. “You have disobeyed me,” she said. I looked at her. “Your shoes.” I looked down at my loafers, much the worse for wear. “For shame, Mr. Geist. One thing I ask of you before I die. I gave you that money for a specific purpose; did you think I would forget?” “I’m ...” Tell her. “I’m still looking for the right pair.” “Well, do find them, or else I shall think you ungrateful.” She shifted with discomfort. “Forgive me for noting that you seem a tad anxious today.” Tell her. I shrugged. “I imagine that it has to do with your imminent return home.” I’d forgotten all about my trip. “I don’t have to go,” I said. “I can c
ancel.” She raised her eyebrows. Tell her. “I don’t want to go,” I said. “It’s going to be depressing.” “A little angst is good for the soul.” “But,” I said. “But who’s going to look after you?” “As I have said, I managed very well without you for years, and I shall continue to do so in your temporary absence. Dr. Cargill is due Monday. I expect that I shall survive until then.” Tell her. “But what if something happens to you?” “What in the world would happen to me?” Tell her now. “Anything could happen,” I said. “You would shield me from the Apocalypse, then?” “I—” “You are expecting a typhoon.” “I can’t leave when you’re ... like this.” She frowned. “I shall elect to let that pass without rejoinder.” “Don’t. Let’s be honest. Isn’t that what you want from me? Honesty? Well, I’m being honest, and honestly, I’m worried about you. You’re not well.” “Surely you do not believe this to be a new development.” “You know what, I’m going to call and cancel. It’s far, and I’m not in the mood to get on a plane.... I’m going to call her right now.” “You will do no such thing.” “It’s really fine.” “It may be fine with you,” she said, “but it is not fine with me.” Tell her. “But I don’t want to go.” “Rubbish.” “Ms. Spielmann—” “Mr. Geist. Whence this obstinacy?” “I’m worried.” “Unreasonably.” “You don’t know that.” This was not some logical exercise, a point of debate to be won or lost. This was real, with real consequences, and I felt myself beginning to lose my head, heard my voice beginning to rise. “You don’t know what’s reasonable or not.” “Until I am more convincingly dissuaded, I shall rely upon my own critical apparatus, thank you very much.” “But, no. Look. Look: you don’t know.” “What, may I ask, is there to know?” Tell her. “I—I can’t explain it.” “Try.” “I can’t.

  ” “Then I cannot see how you shall win this argument.” We volleyed a while longer, with me growing progressively more strident, until finally I spit it all out, everything Eric had said to me in the bar. I stammered throughout and was panting by the time I finished, waiting for her to react with appropriate horror. But all she said was, “Ah.” “That’s it?” “Mr. Geist, I am moved by your concern. And I can appreciate that you have been under a good deal of strain. However, I cannot see why any of this bears upon your travel plans. Were my nephew truly capable of such a thing—” “I’m telling you what he said.” “You misunderstand me.” She smiled. “Morally, he may be capable. But he is far too incompetent to bring it off.” “This isn’t a joke.” “You needn’t worry, Mr. Geist. I shall arm myself.” “This is serious.” “Oh, quite.” The more agitated I got, the less seriously she seemed to take me. That I could seem to express myself only in the form of impotent anger frustrated me immensely, making me even more petulant and angry in turn. “For God’s sake—” “Suppose you are correct. What, then, do you propose I do?” “Call the police.” “Ach, Mr. Geist, be reasonable.” “You

  be reasonable.” “Allow me to point out that if in fact Eric does mean to harm me, he would be unwise to do so now, having shown you his hand. Were I him, I would gnash my teeth and regret that I had mistakenly chosen an accomplice who turned out, against all odds, to have scruples.” She smiled again. “One of my nephew’s profoundest limitations is that he sees himself in everyone.” I couldn’t understand why she was so calm. “I’m not leaving unless you call the police. Even then I might not.” “Then what do I stand to gain by complying?” “You can’t stop me from calling them.” “I can. It is my house, and my telephone.” “Then I’ll call from somewhere else.” “You will not. My nephew needs no more bother from the police—” “‘No more

  ?”’ “—certainly not when—” “What does that mean, ‘no more’?” “Merely that I have no desire to see him interrogated over a matter which shall inevitably prove to be so much sound and fury.” “This is your safety we’re talking about.” “I assure you that your fears are ungrounded.” “You don’t kn—” “I do,” she said, “and it shall offend me greatly if you disobey me. Eric can be difficult, but he poses no danger to me.” “I’m not going.” “You would stay inside for the remainder of your life?” “If I have to.” “Mr. Geist.” “Ms. Spielmann.” “You shall go, Mr. Geist.” “I w—” “You shall, because if you continue to argue with me, I shall sack you.” “With all due respect—” “Enough,” she said. “You will

  leave, and you will

  cease to argue with me this instant, or else I shall call the police and have them take you

  away.” Silence. “Is that clear?” I was too startled to do anything but nod. “The matter is settled,” she said. She put her hand on her forehead; her body seemed to shrink a tiny bit. I could see how much the argument had taken out of her, and I felt awful for raising my voice. I started to apologize, but she shook her head. “I beg you, no more. I am tired and I should like to go upstairs, please.” This was her way of asking for help. I took her arm, and we walked to the stairs. It was slow going. “Are you all right?” “Come, now, Mr. Geist. Don’t make me answer that.” As we climbed the first three steps, I felt her weakening, relying more and more on me to stay up. Midway up, she paused, breathing hard. “Perhaps I ought to remain here for a short while,” she said. With some hesitation, I said, “May I?” She looked away. Then, to my surprise, she nodded. Her body felt like straw, and as I picked her up, one arm under her knees and the other around her shoulders, her head lolled against me, and her hair came loose, veiling her face. Beyond the perfume I smelled her, all eight decades of her, the commingled scents of a lifetime of activity and thought and movement and sorrow and joy and then, on the end, the bitterest finish. I feel no shame in saying that I wished she would fade away right then and there. I had never been in her bedroom. As I brought her over the threshold, I was enveloped by a more concentrated version of that scent. I carried her to the bed, removed her shoes, and drew the blanket over her. “Thank you.” She sounded like ten percent of herself. “You are a good boy.” I told her I would be downstairs if she needed anything. “Joseph ...” “Yes, Ms. Spielmann?” She didn’t respond; she was already asleep. She had never used my Christian name before, and I stayed there for some time, watching over her.

  16 I

  n the end I went. What choice did I have? I was afraid of what Eric would say to the police, and Alma’s vehemence, however puzzling, was irrefutable. I had to trust that she was right, that I was being paranoid, and that if I wasn’t, Eric would not be so stupid as to act now. One seldom truly believes that the worst will happen. Before I left I apologized again. She winked forgiveness. “Friends must be honest with each other, mustn’t they?” I told her I would call her once I touched down. “Do not concern yourself with me,” she said. “Put me out of your mind.” “You know I won’t be able to do that.” “Do your best, Mr. Geist. Enjoy yourself. As the saying goes, we have only one life to live.”

  FATHER FRED was at the baggage claim to greet me. “Welcome home,” he said. In the years since I had last seen him he had fallen straight into middle age: his face seamed, his eyebrows the color of Spanish moss. We embraced, and through his coat I felt bone. “I was going to take a taxi.” “Your mother told me. That’s why I’m here.” I’d forgotten what a crazy driver he was. We hit the interstate going ninety, giving us three quarters of an hour to talk. I asked after the church, after people close to him. When we got around to discussing the memorial, he employed his usual tact, never a bad word, although it was clear my mother had run him ragged. “It’s a blessing,” he said, “if for no other reason than it’s brought you back. I was afraid I wouldn’t get to see you before I left.” “So,” I said. “California.” He nodded. “What’s in California.” “This time next year, a lovely Catholic school near Santa Barbara will be in need of a principal. I’ll be doing some teaching, too. They have an olive grove on the grounds. I went for a visit, and I’m pleased to report that the climate reminded me of Rome.” “... sounds wonderful.” “Joseph,” he drawled, “you never were much of a liar.” Whatever ill will
I’d felt upon getting the news from my mother had long since dissipated, certainly after I’d come through the revolving door to find him waiting for me. My urge to fix him in place was selfish, not to mention futile, and I wanted very much to be happy for him. I worked to muster more enthusiasm. “It won’t be the same without you,” I said. “Oh, I don’t know about that. One thing I’ve learned over the years is that it’s impossible for a clergyman to overstate his own insignificance.” “And Mater Dei?” “Father Martin’s taking over. You’ve met him, I assume.” The other priest had freckles and blunted critical thinking skills. “Once or twice.” “He’s extremely popular, as I’m sure you’re aware. Almost every parish around here has been going downhill over the last five years. Ours is one of the few exceptions, and he gets all the credit for that. He has a background in computers. He made us a website, if you can believe it. I have an e-mail address now.” “I didn’t know. I would have written.” “I’ve always had a phone.” “Mea culpa.” “At any rate, I’m very comfortable leaving the community in his hands. For all intents and purposes, it’s already in them. What the Church needs now is new blood, people who can restore some of the trust that’s been lost. I’ve had many good years here, and now things have changed. All part of His plan. I know you don’t think there is a plan, but someday you’ll see.” “You think?” “I do. But either way, I believe God appreciates the fact that you’ve given Him a good deal of thought.” He smiled, flicked on his turn signal. “Even if you came out wrong in the end.” As we left the interstate and headed along Riverfront, a light rain began to fall. We came to the place where my brother drove off the road, and Father Fred pulled over and cut the engine. Wet shadows streaked the interior of the car. “I come here to reflect sometimes,” he said. “It’s not very scenic.” “No. But it helps me remember.” I said nothing. “I’ll miss this place,” he said. “I never have,” I said. “You will.” He started the car. “Someday.” THE MEMORIAL TOOK PLACE that afternoon in the church social hall. The aforementioned photo of Chris sat out on a stand near the entrance. Taken his freshman year of high school, it captured him in all his fresh-faced glory. There was a guestbook. I sat toward the front, where I wouldn’t have to talk to people as they entered. The turnout was much larger than I’d expected, close to forty, wives and children accompanying men my brother had grown up with. Father Fred spoke first, warmly recalling Chris’s service. Then came the school friends, telling stories about the teenager they remembered and the good times they’d had—stories intended to be funny but that for the most part came across as elegies to adolescence. As per my mother’s description, everyone had changed, few for the better. Tommy Snell was indeed as bald as his father; so was Kevin Connar, plus he had a gut the size and shape of a compost heap. I overheard someone whisper that he was gettin the gastric bypass. My mother’s friend Rita Green recited a selection from Housman’s “To an Athlete Dying Young.” I was impressed by this until I realized that Father Fred had chosen the readings. She then presented, on behalf of the ladies’ sewing circle, a check in support of Children’s Hospital, and a wall hanging of a lighthouse, which, she explained, symbolized the presence of lost loved ones in our lives. I glanced at my father. He, too, had aged. No longer the ox-like tyrant of my memory, but loose, soft, inert. He’d barely spoken to me since I’d gotten home, barely spoken at all. I wondered what he made of the people standing before him, evoking his dead son, singing of what had been and what would never be. If he heard an indictment, he did not show it. Sometimes I envied him: his was an unexamined life, and therefore a more peaceful one than I could ever have. The ceremony ended, and I told my mother I’d see her back at the house. I asked Father Fred to drive me to the cemetery, where I could pay my respects in private, with words of my own, or in silence if I so chose. STANDING IN THE KITCHEN, my ear plugged to block out the noise of the reception, I phoned Alma several times that evening. Nobody ever answered, and each time I returned to the living room feeling incrementally more tense. By nine o’clock a handful of people remained, circling the crudites and a skinned-over bowl of onion dip. Tommy Snell did his best to engage me in a conversation about insoles. I told him it was good to see him and again made my way to the phone, sitting down alone at the breakfast table and trying to think of what I could possibly do for her from this far away. Most likely she wasn’t picking up because she was in the throes of an attack—which, while upsetting to imagine, was far better than the alternative. I considered calling Drew, asking him to drop by. But she didn’t know him, and moreover, if she was resting, she wouldn’t answer the door any more than the phone. “I’ll be seeing you.” Father Fred was in the doorway, one hand up. As I walked him out, we passed through the living room—empty now except for my mother, who was stacking paper plates and stuff ing them into a trash bag. Father Fred kissed her on the cheek. “It was a beautiful ceremony,” she said. “Thank you.” “Thank you for suggesting it,” he said. She smiled tremulously. “I never do stop thinking about him.” “That’s all right,” Father Fred said. “You think as much as you want. The katydids had begun their nightly riot. Father Fred regretted that a morning meeting kept him from driving me to the airport. I thanked him and wished him luck. “I have e-mail now,” he said. “No excuses.” I watched him peel out, debating whether I ought to try Alma one last time. It was close to ten P.M., eleven in Cambridge. I had left my parents’ number with her—all but irrelevant if anything had gone seriously wrong. I told myself I was getting lathered up over nothing, and had just begun to believe it when a crash from inside the house brought me hurrying up the front walk. My mother was standing in the center of the living room. Her face was dry, and the only way to tell she was crying was by looking at her stomach, which convulsed as she watched my father try to tip over the china cabinet. He’d had greater success with a glass end table, which now consisted of a circular faux-brass frame and a sea of shards. The cabinet didn’t give in quite so easily. A good eight feet tall and loaded down with plates, it would raise up a few inches before my father lost his grip and the whole thing slammed back down, narrowly missing his toes. That this was such a tiresome and involved process spoke to the passage of time; in his prime, he would have already dealt with the cabinet and moved on to something else. Now, though, he was sweating, bent over and putting his back into it, grunting swinishly. And laughing. He was laughing like a maniac. That wicked sense of humor of his was intimately connected to his physical vitality. Both had attenuated with age, and watching him heave and oink and giggle, I realized what it was he was trying to achieve: resurrection through an act of destruction. “Dad,” I said. He ignored me. My mother looked at me beseechingly, though I did not know whether she wanted me to go on or to shut up. “Dad. Stop it.” He grunted, slipped, almost fell, steadied himself, began again to push. I took him by the arm; he flung my hand away and turned on me, smiling cockeyed, stink rising off him in great brown waves. “Joey,” my mother said. “Go to bed,” I said. “Let’s dance,” my father said. He pitched forward into my arms. The smell was even worse from up close. “Oh, how we danced,” he sang. I tried to hold him still. “Dance, you little shitbird.” “I’m not little,” I said. “Oh God,” my mother said. Her hands were curled at her mouth. “ ‘Let’s twist again. Like we did last summer.”’ “Come on. Upstairs.” “Oh my God.” “‘... like we did last yeeeaaar.”’ “Move it,” I said, wrestling with him. “I’m not done,” my father said. “You’re done, all right.” “Shitbird.” Though I had been taller than him for years, this was the first real-world application of our strength differential. He had no choice but to stumble along with me as I walked him to the stairs. “I’m gonna kick your ass,” he said to me. “All right,” I said. “Think you can lip off to me.” I pinned his arms to his sides as we toddled down the hall. “Goddammit. Let me go.” “Almost there.” “Let me the fuck go.” We reached the base of the stairs. I released him and he fell down, moaning and holding his head. “I can’t carry you up the stairs,” I said.
He stopped moaning, looked at me, grinned. “I know.” I didn’t know what he meant by that, but it unnerved and insulted me, and I felt my neck growing hot. “Do what you want,” I said. “I don’t care.” “You look like my father,” he said. I’d never met my paternal grandfather—never seen him, not even a picture—so I could not vouch for the truth of this statement. I braced myself for what came next. A secret of some sort, a key piece of family history that would, if not justify, at least explain how it was we had all come to this point. “He was a piece of shit,” said my father. I turned my back on him and walked away. My mother was on her knees in the living room, picking glass out of the carpet, her hands spotted with blood. I told her I was leaving. “Your flight’s not till morning,” she said. I shrugged. “You’re going to sleep at the airport?” “I guess so.” Silence. “What about me?” she asked. I looked at her. “I can’t answer that.” She made a broken noise, then went back to work. I ordered a cab, gathered my things, and left without saying goodbye. I BOARDED the first leg of my flight sore from sleeping in a hard plastic chair. There were no working pay phones in the terminal, though I did manage to call Alma’s house during my layover in Cincinnati. No one answered. While dialing Drew’s number, I heard the boarding announcement for my second flight and had to hang up. Normally I would have taken the T, but I felt antsy enough to spring for a second cab. Down through the Ted Williams, along Storrow, under the irrelevant graffito bemoaning the Curse. What would happen to Sox fans now that they had nothing to complain about, the driver asked. “They’ll think of somethin to complain about,” he said. “People always do.” In no mood to chat, I overtipped him, taking the front steps in a single bound, calling her name as I entered. Silence. Her bedroom door was closed. I resisted the urge to knock by telling myself that if I needed to see her, it was mainly for my own gratification. To distract myself I did laundry. On my way back through the kitchen, I stopped to cut myself a piece of Sachertorte; finding it close to stale, all the whipped cream gone, I made a note to go out and get fresh supplies. I rinsed my plate, dried it. It seemed impossible that only twenty minutes had elapsed since I’d gotten home. I waited until the wash was done, then transferred my clothes to the dryer and went out for a walk, returning ninety minutes later with groceries in hand, utterly beside myself. I dropped the bags in the entry hall and went upstairs. I knocked. Silence. I knocked again, turned the handle. Her room was pitch black and the shades down and the air rank and I saw her bent shape in the bed, touched by a sliver of hallway light. She was lying oddly, one arm propped up by the pillow and jutting like a mast or a branch, her face angled away so that she showed me the back of her head, strands of white silk limp and dry and I knew that it was all wrong and I ran in, barking my shin against the bedframe, an injury I did not notice until later that night, or I should say rather the next morning, when I would see that I had gashed the flesh wide open. That was all later. Now I turned her over. Her nightgown was scaled with dried vomit and her lips parted as though she was breathing but she was not and I found her wrist and then said to myself call an ambulance, you are not equipped to make decisions. I called the ambulance. I sat on the floor, holding her hand, and though my mind became aware of the approaching siren and the ringing bell I could not stand or move, and believe it or not they broke down the front door, two nice young men in blue uniforms who sent me downstairs while they confirmed what I already knew to be true. My dear Joseph, I apologize for the trouble I will have no doubt caused you. To spare you any additional burden, I have sent a letter to my attorney, who shall make all the necessary arrangements. For your amusement, herewith a copy of my thesis. It is of no value whatsoever except perhaps as a jeu d’esprit. Read it with a kind eye. Know that what I do, I do freely. You above all ought to understand. With everlasting fondness, Alma