The Letter

Marjorie Coales, almost eighty, returned from church service to find the back door jimmied. Surveying the house, she determined that the thief had stolen some cash, a jewelry box, and its contents. She didn't bother to contact the police.

From her husband’s directory, she called a man to repair the door, and he added a security bar, no charge, saying, “Your husband was always good to me.”

Betty came to the door, mentioning that a few houses on the row had been robbed, and asked Marjorie if hers was one of them.

“Things have been quiet around here,” said Marjorie.

“It’s just that…” said Betty. “Well, I saw someone repairing your back door, so I thought…”

“Yes, the back door,” said Marjorie. “It’s been a shambles for years. Cold air.”

Betty smiled. “Well, okay then, I’ll let you go.”

“Have a nice day, dear,” said Marjorie as she eased the door between them.

Betty hesitated, then knocked softly. Marjorie cracked the door again and smiled.

“If you ever need help around here,” said Betty, “or getting groceries—”

“I’m doing fine,” said Marjorie.

“Jennifer is always looking for something to do after school.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Marjorie, and shut the door.

*

In the TV room, Marjorie sat in a comfortable chair, tea and a framed photograph of a handsome gentleman in his seventies on the table beside her. The TV was off.

“I know you think I should have called the police,” she said, “but I don’t care about any of that old jewelry, and we won’t miss the money.”

She blew on her tea and took a sip.

“And I don’t need that letter anymore.”

Near the end of her tea, she said, “Next Saturday is Martin’s birthday,” then after a few minutes added, “He would have been fifty.”

Later, Marjorie had trouble sleeping. Standing in the doorway of her son’s room—untouched all these years, except for the occasional dusting—she surveyed the walls and wondered if kids still listened to INXS and Depeche Mode, if they still obsessed over Phoebe Cates. She recalled an even earlier time, when Martin’s walls were festooned with posters of Spiderman, the X-Men, Thor. Those posters were rolled up in his closet, she was sure. When Martin was a child, all he ever wanted was to be a hero, and slowly he grew out of that innocent naivety into what she thought to be a well-adjusted typical teenager—good in school, laughing all the time, lots of friends.

Then he shot himself in the head with his father’s rifle.

Waiting until they were out of the house, he entered the bathroom, locked the door, sat in the tub, and blew away the rest of his life: a career, a wife, children, grandchildren, laughter, despair, friendship, travel. Hope.

All he left behind was that letter.

Marjorie had tried to make sense of it, but there was none to be had. The letter might as well have been written in Latin.

She was alone now, with no husband, and memories of a son she never really knew.

*

One year later, Marjorie answered a knock. Through the barely open door, she saw a man standing a few feet away from the frame.

“Hello, my name is Nick, and I was hoping to talk to you about something.”

“I’m sorry, Nick,” said Marjorie, “but I’m not in need of whatever you might be selling.”

Nick raised his hands to his chest. “No ma’am, you misunderstand.”

“I don't give to charity,” said Marjorie, starting to close the door.

“Ma’am,” shot Nick, “I robbed your house last year.” He tried to keep eye contact—he had promised himself he would—but he dropped his eyes.

Marjorie took a deep breath, opened the door wide, and stared at this man in disbelief.

“I wanted to—” he began, but she cut in.

“You spent the money, and sold the jewelry, didn't you? Probably for drugs.”

He nodded. “I know you can’t forgive me.”

“Why are you here?” she asked.

Nick pulled out a letter from his breast pocket, and Marjorie, recognizing it at once, stifled a gasp.

“This letter was under the tray in the jewelry box I stole.”

“Yes,” she said, not reaching for it.

“I thought you might want it back.” He handed it to her and, after a moment, she took it.

“Thank you,” she said, stunned in the moment at how important the letter was to her. “I hope things get better for you.”

“That's why I came,” he said. “Things are better.”

“No longer a thief?” asked Marjorie.

“Thanks to your son,” said Nick.

Marjorie took a step back. “What do you mean?”

“Ma’am, your son’s letter changed my life.”

Marjorie shook her head, confused.

“I didn't realize other people felt the way I do. When I read that letter…” He choked on his words, then continued. “I went to rehab, cleaned myself up, got a job…a girlfriend.”

Marjorie couldn't speak.

“She actually loves me,” said Nick, seeming surprised.

Marjorie had read that letter hundreds of times over the years, trying to decipher the meaning behind the words, the reasons why, but she never really understood Martin. And here was this man standing on her doorstep, a complete stranger, who’d never met her son, yet somehow, he knew him intimately.

Nick seemed embarrassed and took a step backward.

“I’m sorry about the state of the letter,” he said. “When I was in rehab, I passed it around a lot.”

“Other people read it?”

He lowered his eyes. “Yes, ma’am. Everyone read it.”

She said nothing for several seconds, and Nick turned sheepishly to go.

“Nick,” said Marjorie, and Nick spun to face her. “Would you like to come in for a cup of tea?”

Timothy Hoare’s stories have made the longlist at CBC Canada Writes, and the finals at NYCMidnight. He writes short and feature length screenplays, many of which have been produced, garnering numerous awards. His worst writing can be found in Teen Angst Poetry, of which he's strangely proud.