The Last September: A Novel

Dear Charlie.

Apparently Daniel liked uni-balls, too. He had outfitted my desk with four. I held the pen to my lip and thought of all the things I wanted to say. For instance, how to describe the weirdness of where I was, in the home of Ladd’s uncle, with Charlie’s copper pots waiting to be piled into a box and stored in an upstairs closet. Things. The people they belong to, and whether they survive. Where they end up. At the Moss house, I had grabbed the most obvious possessions of Charlie’s, but what else remained there? Whisks and slotted spoons. His ancient paperback of Riddley Walker, dampened and wrinkled by the same air as Eli’s letter. Photographs. Tennis trophies. I thought, if I can write this letter, I can ask him what else he wants me to retrieve, what he wants Sarah to have. I pressed the pen to the page, but the words I scribbled—as if my hand were guided by some Ouija spirit—had nothing to do with my intentions.

Dear Charlie. It’s okay. Eli can stay as long as he likes. Just please don’t wait for him. Come over to Maxine’s right away. Right now. Spend the night with Sarah and me. We miss you so much.

I imagined opening my bedroom door the barest crack. Passing the letter to the other side. Where Charlie would be standing, not pressing the door open, but respecting my wishes to stay hidden. He might carry the letter halfway down the hall before unfolding it. At the top of the steps he could read, nodding quietly. Heeding my words for once in his life, strolling back into the past, and returning to us all.

I MUST HAVE BEEN very quiet, coming down the stairs. Ladd used to complain about it, my lack of audible footfall. He didn’t like being sneaked up on. I wasn’t sneaking, I’d say. Just walking.

Daniel and Ladd sat in the living room, Ladd on the couch—his back to the doorway—and Daniel on the wide leather chair, leaning forward, a tumbler of scotch in his hand. Already cocktail hour. I waited for the same alarm to overtake me, but it didn’t, the continued and unreasonable swings of my reactions. The two of them were talking intently, quietly, the lights dim. I felt like a little girl in a nightgown, padding downstairs after bedtime.

Then Daniel noticed me. He put his tumbler on the coffee table and stood up. I walked forward, out of the doorway and into the heart of the room. The letter sat steady in my hands, and both men looked down at it. I guess I could have just explained, to both of them, but my feeling in that moment was that I had to hand it to one. I had to choose. Both faces stared, concerned in the proprietary way of a certain kind of man—the kind who considers himself in charge. And I don’t recall making a conscious choice. I just gave the letter to Daniel. As he started to read, I realized he’d first expected that I had written the letter. The two of them both thinking I had reached a point where I would go upstairs, write a letter, and then come down to give it to them.

The reality did not provide any relief. I watched Daniel’s face as he began to understand what the letter was, what it said, who had written it.

Dear Brett.

I hesitate calling you dear because you should know that I can see you wherever you are. A hundred years ago you would have been chattel. Before 1967 you would have been a prostitute. Charlie’s slave and he never even knew. You were my discovery and I saw exactly what happened. Society isn’t crumbled yet, we still have rules. You and I need to talk.

I love you. Eli