She tapped her nails on the table, finishing her beer. “Well. I blew my quota. I will now go and let you brood in peace.”
He laughed against the mouth of the beer bottle. “I’m not brooding. I feel incredibly surreal right now. I’m in a little bit of a time warp and—”
“And possibly you will be short, curt and moody the rest of the night,” she said, putting up her palm. “It’s all right, as long as I know in advance.”
She got up from the table and, as she passed, Erik caught her hand. “Are you sure you don’t have a third question?”
“You’re adorable,” she said. “And no further questions. Oh, this came for you. Registered mail, I had to sign for it.”
From the counter she handed him a padded envelope. She kissed his head and left the kitchen. Erik drank the last of his beer, eyebrows wrinkled at the envelope. A return address in the corner, but no name. Slowly he set the empty beer bottle down as he realized the address, postage and postmark were Canadian.
Canada.
Daisy.
“Shit,” he whispered, his heart breaking into a gallop. First the radio segment, now this knockout punch.
Breathing deeply, he broke the seal on the envelope and drew out a typed letter. He unfolded it, glanced just at the first line—What’s up, asshole?
He knew immediately.
Not Daisy.
Will.
Waiting To Be Found
25 April 2002
Saint John, New Brunswick
What’s up, asshole? I know what you’re thinking: how the hell did he find me? Well, I know you’re isolated out there in East Bumfuck but there’s this nifty new invention called the internet. It makes it really difficult for your enemies to hide from you. Especially when they work for a State University with a website. And let their pretty faces get captured in college newsletter articles. What an amateur move. Honestly, are you even trying anymore?
Well anyway, you’re still a handsome little fucker. And congratulations on your recent accolade. A national award from the United States Institute for Theater Technology. Aren’t we doing nicely?
So here it is, 2002. I was at Lancaster for the ten-year anniversary. Nice of you to show up. What, you think your angst doesn’t smell?
Kidding.
(Not.)
Anyway, I was at Lancaster. Don’t know if you heard but they rededicated the auditorium to Marie. They made a really nice ceremony and Daisy and I danced “The Man I Love” because DUH. Haven’t danced the thing since 1993 and to tell the truth, I’m fine retiring it from my resume. It’s just riddled with fucking context and I can’t dance it without crying, plus Daisy gained six ounces and lifting her makes my knees creak.
(Don’t tell her I said that.)
(Oh wait, you wouldn’t anyway. My bad.)
So what was I talking about? Oh yeah, Lancaster. Opie was there. He’s a superstar down in Boston now. He and Dais had a thing some years ago. (Don’t play the dumb blond—I know you know.) They still seemed awful sweet on each other at the ceremony but probably they were just caught up in the nostalgic moment. Whatever the case, Opie did grow up nice. But who didn’t see that coming?
(I don’t know, why AM I telling you this?)
David was there and he’s in sad shape, apparently in remission from some kind of kidney cancer. The treatment really did a number on him, lost all his hair and weighs less than Daisy. It was pretty sobering although he seems in good spirits and the prognosis looks promising. He spoke of a girlfriend, hinted they were going to tie the knot. Although if this chick is smart, she’ll keep herself a dishonest woman. Dave only wants what he can’t have, right?