Jack Kerouac is Dead to Me - Gae Polisner Page 0,9

lands on the rug with a satisfying thud.

I hate that dumb book. The letter writing started right after Nana gave it to Mom, and told us all her old stories again. She and Nana are always going on about the guy, some long-dead author who no one cares about anymore. Just because Nana met him once when she was young.

The Kerouac letters weren’t the only sign of my mother being crazy, though. There was the constant crying, the sleeping, the heavy drinking, and recently the talking to herself or, more accurately, the conversations she started having with my dad when he wasn’t there. Calling him by name, laughing with him all flirty and weird, when it was clear they weren’t on the phone.

I’d walk past her bedroom and hear her talking to him, but when I peeked in, there was no phone in sight, no laptop open. Only Mom, alone, sitting on the edge of her bed staring at the wall.

“JL? You there? I’m really sorry, hon. Did you hear what I said?”

Dad’s voice drifts back to me. When did he pick up again? And why is he apologizing?

“No.” The word sticks in my throat. I want to hang up. I shouldn’t have called. He barely checks in anymore. Not really. Not unless he has bad news.

“They extended the contract, sweetheart … nothing I could help. They have the right … two options … practically begged me … end of August, latest … swear … come out … stay the summer here.”

The room reels. I don’t want to hear the rest of his words.

Instead, I count on my fingers. It’s the same deal as last time. “But that’s four more months, Dad, and Mom isn’t doing so well.” I stop, swallow back more tears. Telling him will only make him want to stay away longer.

“I know, honey. I feel awful. This is the absolute last extension I have to honor.”

But I’m not listening anymore. I’m lost in the collage of Kerouac’s face, staring up at me through the glass square of the coffee table.

EARLY APRIL

TENTH GRADE

I drop the stack of bills and Mom’s letter in the box, right as Benny drives up, my favorite mailman. He’s been delivering our mail since I was little.

“I’ve got those!” he calls from the curb, his hand stretched out the open mail truck door. I walk over, smiling, and place them in his hand. He quickly sorts through them and frowns.

“You sure about this one?” He hands it back to me, the letter Mom gave me to mail, a sympathetic look on his face. “The addressee,” he says.

I read the name, my brain only partially registering:

Mr. Jean-Louis Kerouac

7 Judy Ann Court

Northport, NY 11768

I blink, confused, not only by Kerouac’s last name, but also by the familiar letters of my own first name—Jean Louise—preceding it. When I manage to look up, Benny says, “It’s not the first one. All last month. They kept on coming. Letter after letter to the same address.”

He disappears below the window like he’s retrieving something from under his seat, and reappears with a rubber-banded bundle of envelopes, all stamped Return to Sender.

“It would be a federal offense for me not to mail them, but once they come back … Well, I was hoping to maybe catch your mother in person.”

I take the stack reluctantly, and thumb through them.

“Wait,” I finally say. “Are these all to him? Jack Kerouac?”

Benny shrugs. “I wasn’t sure at first myself. Never read the guy so I didn’t realize from the name, had only ever heard of him referred to as Jack. But the address … well, most of us older folks, we know the famous addresses along our routes, you know? They ring a bell. So I asked around…”

I nod, wondering how many people at the post office now know my mother is insane.

“My route sub, Shauna, she grew up nearby, and recognized the address immediately.” He nods at my hand clutching the letters. “Turns out anyone from around here knows Kerouac lived over there. Same as we know Billy Joel comes from Hicksville, or Alec Baldwin hails from the South Shore. You know how it is.”

I nod again, even though I don’t know. I don’t know anything except that I’m holding some messed-up letters from my mother.

“Yeah,” I say, forcing my gaze up to Benny’s. “Thanks for this. These. Thanks for not telling anyone.”

“Hey,” he says, trying to turn his voice hopeful. “Maybe that’s not who she meant to send them to? Maybe they’re