Authors: Mark Z. Danielewski
Dear dear devoted Johnny,
Is
it
possible? Will I really see you in ten days? After all these years, am I to finally marvel at
your face and touch your hands and taste for myself the sweetness of your voice?
I’m dancing around awaiting your arrivaL
People here think I really am crazy. Hard to believe a year ago you were nowhere, and now you’re off to Alaska for the summer and then boarding school.
I will admit I’m a little nervous. You must not judge your mother too harshly. She is not the blossom she used to be, to say nothing of the fact that she also lives in an institute.
Hurry. Hurry. I won’t be able to sleep until I have you at my side filling my ear with your adventures and plans.
With too much love for even
the word to hold,
Mommy
July 24, 1985
Dear
Johnny,
Where are you? Almost two months have passed since your visit and I’m possessed by an eerie presentiment that all is not well. Was it your leaving that seemed to offer up a discordant note? The way you turned your back on your mother and only looked back twice, not that twice shouldn’t have been more than enough, after all once was too much for Orpheus, but your lookings seemed to signal in my heart some message of mortal wrong.
Si nunca tes ftieras.
Am I being silly? Is your mother having a fit over nothing? Tell me and I will shut. All I require is the assurance of a letter in your exquisite hand or at the very least a postcard. Tell your mother, my dear, dear child, that she’s just being a silly girl.
What bliss to have had you in my company. I hope my tears did not disturb you. I just was not prepared to find you so beautiful. Like your father. No, not like, more.
More
beautiful than your father. It made no sense to hear how that terrible Marine Man could beat you like an animal and call you a beast. Such flawless features, such dazzling eyes. So sharp with the snap of intelligence yet so warm and alive with the sap of life. Like the wise old you seemed to me even though you are still so remarkably young.
Some people reflect light, some deflect it, you by some miracle, seem to collect it. Even after we went inside and left the blunt sun to the lawn, the shadows of the rec room could do nothing to dull your shimmer. And to think this almost supranatural quality in my only boy was the least of his wonder.
Your voice and words still sing within me like some ancient hymn which can on its own live forever among the glades and arbors of old mountains, black forests, the waves of dead seas, places still untouched by progress. In the tradition of all that existed long before the invention of the modem or the convenience store, your tale-teffing stilled wind and bird as if nature herself had ordered
it,
knowing you carried a preserving magic worthy of us all.
Donnie had instances like that. When he spoke of flying—his only real love—he too could still the world. You, however, seem to manage
it
for everything. It’s a rare and stupendous gift and yet you’ve absolutely no idea you have
it.
You’ve listened to tyrants and lost faith in your qualities. ‘What’s worse, the only one to tell you otherwise is a mad woman locked up in the loony bin.
Dear me, that is a mess!
Perhaps your new school will set you straight. Hopefully some good teachers there will offer you the nurturing you still require. Perhaps even your mother’s condition will improve enough so you can begin to take her seriously.
One bit of bad news: the old director has left. The new one seems more indifferent to my emotional patterns. He’s convinced, I regret to say, that my convalescence requires greater restrictions. Though I doubt he’d ever admit
it,
the New Director sneers whenever he addresses me.
Ah Johnny I could write you like this for days. Your appearance made me so happy. Please write and tell me your visit did not spoil your feelings for me.
Your mother loves you like the old
seafarers loved the stars.
August 23, 1985
My dear son, the only son I have,
Your mother must hear from you. She is without ally. The New Director pays no attention to her pleas. The attendants laugh behind her back. And now worst of all, her only guiding light has vanished. Not a word, not a sign, not a thing.
I relive your visit every waking moment. Did I mis-see it all? Were you put off, embarrassed, disappointed, determined to depart forever, gritting your teeth until the hour kindly allowed you to go? And me, did I see this all and misinterpret your smiles and chuckles as examples of love, affection, and childlike devotion? Not getting it at all. Missing it all.
At least don’t allow your mother’s grave to lack the company of the knowledge she craves. If your plan is to abandon me, at least grant me this last respect.
Rompido mi muñeca.
Your tearful and terribly
confused mother.
September 5, 1985
Dearest Johnny,
I am doing my best to accept your decision to leave me in such silence. Hearing it makes my ears bleed. The New Director doesn’t approve when I use candle wax to keep out the sound of it. (That’s the best I can do at levity.)
I remember when your father would take me flying. I did not go very often. The experience always left me agitated for days. He, however, was always so calm and delicate about everything. Pre-flight preparations were carried out with the care of a pediatrician and once we took off, despite the roar of the engine, he treated all those thousands of miles like a whisper.
I always wore earplugs but they did nothing to keep out the noise. Donnie was oblivious. I honestly don’t believe he heard all the rattling and wind whipping and the awful shuddering sounds the plane made whenever it intersected a particularly unruly patch of air. He was the most peaceful man I ever knew. Up there especially.
Even on that awful and chaotic day, when he had no choice but to take me here, he remained calm and tender. By then his heart was broken, though he didn’t know it yet, no one did, but even so his touch remained gentle and his words as edgeless as the way he flew his plane so far above the clouds.
I wish I could have his peace now. I wish I didn’t have to hear the rattle and roar and scream that is your silence. I wish I could be him.
I’m sorry you saw what you saw in me. I’m sorry I made you run. I must understand. I must accept. I must let you go. But it’s hard. You’re all I have.
Love’s love and more,
Mom
September 14, 1985
Oh my dear Johnny,
Doesn’t your mother feel sillier than ever. I hope you will burn my last letters. So desperate, so undeserved. Of course you were occupied. That canning business sounds awful. Your description of the stench alone will leave fish in my nose for weeks.
I shall think twice next time I’m offered salmon, not that The Whalestoe is particularly fond of dishing out poached portions dolloped with diii sauce.
Even more embarrassing than my own pitiful and mewling whines was my complete disregard for the possibility that you were having and suffering your own adventures and tragedies.
Your description of the sinking fishing boat left me speechless. Your phrases and their respondent images still keep within me. The cold water lapping at your ankles, threatening to pull you down into “freezing meadows stretched to the horizon like a million blue pages” or “a ten second scramble to a life raft where all of a sudden the eighth second says no” and of course the worst of all “leaving behind someone who wasn’t a friend but might have become one.”
You are absolutely right. Losing the possibility of something is the exact same thing as losing hope and without hope nothing can survive.
You are so full of brave insights. They are not for nothing. I have to tell you for a moment your words succeeded in keeping the boat afloat and your Haitian’s lungs full of air.
On a brighter note, I am very pleased that you managed to avoid those fights. The occasion you described where you walked from the factory showed great courage and maturity. Your mother glows with pride over her son’s new found strength.
School is going to bring you untold pleasures I promise.
With love and eternal regard,
Mom
P.S. I fear the New Director insists on reading my mail now. He would not admit to this directly but things he says along with certain mannerisms indicate he intends to study and censor my letters. Stay alert. We may need to find some alternate means of communicating.
September 19,
1985
Dear, dear Johnny,
This is somewhat urgent. I’ve gotten an attendant to mail this. He will take
it
beyond The Whalestoe grounds and thus help us avoid the New Director’s prying eyes.
As I indicated in my last letter, I’ve grown increasingly suspicious about the staff here, especially where my personal care is concerned. I need to feel we can correspond without interference.
For now all you need to do is place in your next letter a check mark in the lower right hand corner. That way I’ll know you received this letter.
Don’t make the check mark too big or too small or else the New Director will know something’s afoot. He is an exceedingly sly man and will be able to grasp any effort to exclude him. So just make
it
a simple check mark—our little code, so effortless and yet so rich in communication.
Don’t tarry. Respond to your mother in a hurry. I need to know if this attendant is trustworthy. In general, they are a sordid lot. They’re supposed to make my bed every day. A week has passed since they last touched these scrappy blue things they have the audacity to refer to as linen.
With love and heartfelt thanks,
Mom
September 30, 1985
My cherished little baby,
Never could I have imagined such a penniless check would make your mother feel richer than Daddy Warbucks.
We have found a way!
And there’s more; your mother knows now how to get better so she can permanently leave The Whalestoe. I have found the scissors to snip the black ribbons which bind me like a Chinese doll, blind me like the old Spanish doll I once guarded in the gables of a fantastic attic where we both awaited our execution.
Of course, the details I must keep to myself. For now. The New Director doesn’t know of my discovery. He is keen but your mother is keener and what’s more she’s very patient.
I pass through my days the way I have always passed through my days only now I have grasped the reason for my incarceration and a way beyond it. If only I had understood this when your father was alive I might have spared his heart all that strife and burden. Time provides in such strange ways.
Appalling that I never suspected until now the basis for their power over me. Your father meant well when he delivered me into this Hell Hole but it was not what he assumed. It is full of vipers and poisonous toads. If I’m to escape, we must be very careful.
As for your concerns, do not worry too much. School always starts out roughly.
love, love, love,
Mom
October 4, 1985
Dearest Johnny,
Terrible news!
Only this morning, the New Director called me into his office for a special consultation, a very rare event, especially
before
breakfast. For twenty minutes, he went over my medication with me, going over every tablet, every name, the purpose behind each chemical I’m mandated to ingest each and every day, then emphasizing before the close of every minute, how it was not up to me to decide what I would and would not take.
But it didn’t stop there. Believe me when I say I am not prevaricating in order to strengthen my case. The New Director fixed his beady eyes on me and brought up the matter of these letters, suggesting I might be writing too much and
burdening
you!
Burdenig
you! Imagine that!
I actually might not have been so bothered had he not then inquired why I felt compelled to require an attendant to handle my mail.
We are found out! I told you the attendants here are foul people. Not one of them can be trusted.
Unfortunately that means your mother needs to find another mode of communication, which is a truly Sisyphian task. In my next effort, I will explain more conclusively how and why they keep me here, but those secrets cannot be shared until I know that what I write will only be viewed by you.