Heft - By Liz Moore Page 0,9

to educate her—& so I tried to. I sent her books to read & asked her to report back to me. She told me she was Irish by descent & so I sent her the Táin Bó Cúailnge, Kinsella’s translation, and I sent her Dubliners. I sent her a whole course in Irish literature. She read what I sent her—I’m fairly certain she did—& she told me what she thought, always as passionately as if the characters were friends or enemies of hers.

In person, our relationship lasted only a few months, but our written correspondence has lasted eighteen years. I now feel a kinship with Charlene Turner that I have rarely felt in my life—perhaps with Marty, perhaps with my mother. It would be impossible to explain why I like her so much, why I liked her from the start. Partly, of course, it was that she liked me & I felt that I wanted to help her however I could. And partly it was that I recognized myself in her—in her awkwardness, her loneliness, her being very out of place, an outsider in a room full of compatriots. These feelings I recognized as my own. She spoke differently than her classmates. She had that accent, which I came to love, & that style of dress, & a sort of timid hopefulness that won me completely. One of the things I loved most about her, what I valued, was her lack of awareness. It was as if she did not see her surroundings, was not aware of elbowing the man next to her in her hurry to be seated, in her hurry to return to invisibility. She was like this, always. Walking down a street she would lag behind, looking in windows, or walk a full block ahead, unnoticing. Once I bent down to tie my shoe and when I looked up she was gone. I walked for five blocks before she found me, blinking, saying “I’m sorry! O I’m sorry!” and then laughing a little at herself, & then taking my arm.

• • •

I received, today, the letter she promised me during our phone call. It came in a square blue envelope that was meant for a card or an invitation. The envelope looked previously used. It was sealed with tape. I sat with it on my couch for quite some time before opening it. I touched every dull corner of it with the pad of my index finger. Holding it made me nostalgic for a time when I received letters from Charlene Turner regularly.

I held the little blue envelope in my hands &, before opening it, compared it to the older letters I had from her. Her handwriting had slowed & expanded. My address on the front of it was written in wider & lazier letters. Her return address was barely legible.

I stuck a finger into one corner of the taped-down flap & I ripped open the envelope all at once.

Inside there was no letter. There was only a small photograph.

I did not know what to make of it at first. It was a boy, fair-haired, sixteen or seventeen maybe, posed for the camera & holding a baseball bat. Wearing a uniform I did not recognize. Something about him looked familiar but he was nobody I knew.

Then I turned the photograph over and there on the back was written, in Charlene’s fattened handwriting, My Son Kel.

I turned it over again to look. & then I turned it back. I did not know what to say to myself. If indeed this was her son it meant she had had one for a very long time without telling me. I did not know why she offered no elaboration. I felt maybe she was upset with me or was being spiteful. Or that maybe she was telling me to get on with my life or was saying to me, in a vicious way, Stop writing to me. Look what I have that you do not have, Arthur. I didn’t know. I didn’t know.

I considered calling her but I was blind to her motives & bewildered. My shyness overcame me. So for the rest of the afternoon I did nothing at all, but became very upset for reasons I can’t fully explain, & very aware of my legacy and my place in the world, & ate a great deal, & then finally sat down at my table again, & then walked to the front door, & then to the couch, & then