Dispatch (29 page)

I took the envelope to the mailbox and dropped it in.

I felt better. Things seemed to be working out. And I walked back to my office in a much better mood.
 

We were often invited to special movie screenings and sneak previews, since a lot of us wrote letters about popular culture. The company usually arranged to show the films at a multiplex in Brea, a new theater with big screens, state-of-the-art projectors and sound, tiered seating. We saw all of the latest movies, often before the general public, not just the blockbusters but foreign films, art films, independent films. They were almost like parties, like Hollywood premieres. Sometimes I saw other people I knew there; sometimes I made new friends. Once, I was even hit on by an elderly gent, who apologized profusely when he realized that he had made a mistake.

This time I went with Fischer and Ellen to see a subtitled Japanese horror movie that had been getting rave reviews and that Fischer wanted to comment on. Shortly after the film started, I experienced a dry-throat coughing fit and went out to the lobby to get a drink of water.

Where I met Kyoko, hurrying in to catch the movie.

I recognized her instantly, and she me. She was beautiful: slim and sexy and modern-looking in the way of the trendiest Japanese models. She looked younger than me, and if I hadn't known better, 1 would have pegged her as being between eighteen and twenty-four. We stood there for an awkward moment, staring at each other, and then I said, "Hi." Not the best conversation starter, but the best I could come up with under the circumstances.

"Hello," Kyoko said, smiling shyly, although it really did sound closer to "Herro."

I was at a loss. Even under the best of circumstances I was not good at cold meetings. I invariably hemmed and hawed and embarrassed myself with my inability to speak naturally. And right now I could think of nothing appropriate to say to her. "You're a Letter Writer," I offered lamely.

She nodded, reddening.

I didn't feel anything for her, I realized. No sparks flew. I'd lied to her about my feelings in those letters so long ago, and my feelings hadn't changed. On a purely objective level, she was probably more attractive than Vicki, but there was no way in the world I would trade. I loved Vicki. And only Vicki. Although I'd written a letter that morning urging the governor of Texas
not
to pardon a prisoner who was about to be executed but was completely innocent of the murder for which he'd been convicted, I felt pure and good thinking about my wife. In spite of my dark and guilty heart, there was hope for me yet.

"Do you getting my new letters?" she asked. "You like more better?"

A warning alarm went off in my head. "
New
letters?" I said cautiously.

She nodded a little too excitedly. "Yes! I send you thirteen so far. Secret-admirer letters. That what I write, my specialty. I want to surprise you like now. You not know it's me?"

Whatever connection there was or might have been between us was severed at that instant. Kyoko was the one who had been sending me those creepy messages. She'd been spying on me, stalking me, and apparently she was expecting me to fall madly in love with her so the two of us could live happily ever after.

Had she been obsessing over me all these years?

The goose bumps on my arms had nothing to do with the air-conditioning.

"I'm sorry," I said, backing away. I didn't know what to say, how to get away from her, how to get out of this. She started to say something, but I quickly ducked back into the theater and made my way down the darkened aisle until I found my row. I sat back down next to Fischer.

"You all right?" he asked.

I nodded. What I really wanted to do was get out of there and escape. I was afraid she'd sit down next to me. Or in front of me. Or behind me. I was afraid she'd follow me out after the movie and then follow me home.

Of course, she already knew where I lived.

This was a no-win situation. I slumped in my seat, staring uncomprehendingly at the screen, not bothering to read the subtitles. Fischer and Ellen shared popcorn, munching happily, completely unaware that anything was amiss, but I kept waiting for Kyoko to show up.

She didn't. And that was a good thing. It gave me time to think, gave me time to calm down. Maybe I'd misread the whole situation. Maybe it was just a cultural thing, a difference in perception. Maybe she wasn't going to go
Fatal Attraction
on me. But as I thought back on the explicitness of the letters and the implication that she'd been in my house spying on me, that she'd lurked outside other people's houses watching me, I realized that there was no way to put a benign spin on what had occurred. My first instinct was right. She was a stalker.

So what was my next move? Someone so obsessive would not be deterred by a simple request to knock it off and leave me alone. And working for the company was really like living in a small town. We were bound to run into each other again.

Especially if she wanted us to.

Especially if she kept following me around.

The lights went up after the movie ended. Fischer, as usual, insisted on staying for the credits, though he couldn't read a word of them, and I took the opportunity to surreptitiously look around. I didn't see Kyoko among the people shuffling up the aisles on their way out, and I couldn't see her in any of the seats, waiting with us.

Which meant that she had to be in the lobby.

I hewed close to Fischer and Ellen as we made our way out of the auditorium.

But she wasn't there.

In a way, this disappearing act was worse. If I'd been able to confront her, particularly with a witness, I would at least have had the satisfaction of taking some action. And I would at least have known her whereabouts. But as it was, I was denied the catharsis of confrontation, leaving me charged up yet frustrated inside, and I found myself looking behind every corner, anticipating each movement, wondering when she was going to show.

We made it out to the parking lot.

The three of us said our good-byes, I drove home—

And there was a letter from Kyoko waiting for me in my mailbox.

This time I opened it, read it:

Dear Jason,

It was wonderful to see you again, and I can't wait to get together! Did I surprise you? I hope so! How do you think I look? My breasts may not be as big as American women's, but I can assure you I know how to use what I've got. I've been saving myself for you. I knew you would come here eventually. You didn't save yourself for me, but I forgive you for that. If I ever catch that bitch Vicki, though...

Just kidding! (Not really!)

I know you have letters to write. I do, too. Keep in touch. I'll see you soon.

Love,
Your Dearest Kyoko

Besides, was this really Kyoko? The writing here was flawless, but she spoke broken English, and it was hard to imagine that this letter came from the same person to whom I'd spoken. I knew it did, though. Letter writing was a language to itself, and I had no doubt that there were Letter Writers who were grunting, inarticulate dolts but could compose correspondence that would make a nun drop her drawers. It was an ability or a talent that seemed to exist independently of anything else, and I thought of a story I'd read in high school where a scientist discovered that even the stupidest people had elaborate dreams as complex and fully realized as the smartest philosopher.

I reread the letter several times before going to bed. I had a hard time sleeping.

The next day, she sent me two letters. One was covered with Hello Kitty stickers. The other envelope had a piece of Japanese Fusen gum inside. What were we, ten? The letters themselves were much more adult and were fairly explicit about what she wanted from me, although they were by no means as blunt as the secret-admirer letters.

The next morning, on my way to work, I saw her following me. She remained a car length behind, but I could see her clearly through the wide windshield of her Corvette, and it occurred to me that I'd seen that car before around town, in front of my house.

When I was at lunch, she left a note on my desk describing the graphic details of a sex dream she'd had the night before.

I didn't know what to do.

Maybe I could get her fired.

Yes! That would be perfect.

I had no idea how to go about it, and I considered just making something up, lying in a letter that I sent to her supervisor or even the CEO of the company—

the Ultimate Letter Writer

—but she was an employee here, too, and that might backfire. She worked on a higher floor, and for all I knew, that meant she was more senior and higher in rank than I was.

Virginia would know what to do. She'd be able to help me. She'd been here a long time, she knew everyone who was anyone, and she genuinely seemed to like me. If anybody could help figure out a way to get Kyoko out of here it would be her.

I wasn't sure I'd be allowed to just pop up and visit the tenth floor, so I walked across the corridor, knocked on Henry's door and went into his office. I ended up telling him the whole story, and though he professed to find it unbelievable, he did not doubt that I was telling the truth.

"I have an idea," he said.

"Shoot," I told him. At this point, I was open to any suggestion.

"Kill her."

I blinked, stared at him. He still wore the friendly passive expression that he always had, and even his eyes appeared warm and kind.

"Go ahead and talk to Virginia, if you want. Talk to anybody you think will help. Get as many thoughts and ideas as you can. But looking at it from where I sit, I don't see any other way out. Even if she lost her job, she wouldn't necessarily move. She might be able to continue plaguing you for ... forever. So if you don't want to get together and she does so desperately, either you're going to have to put up with an eternity of harassment or one of you is going to have to go."

"The company would have one less Letter Writer." I couldn't believe I was playing devil's advocate to his lunatic suggestion. He couldn't be serious.

Could he?

"Sometimes," Henry said slowly, "an ideal is more important than an individual. Do you think all of the Letter Writers throughout history who were martyred or persecuted wanted it to be that way? Do you think those men scribbling away within the Bastille, not knowing whether their words would ever be read, let alone published, desired that existence? No. Letter writing is a cause and a calling that is bigger than ourselves. We did not choose this life, we may have had it thrust on us, but it is our duty to rise to the challenge, to pave the way for the future. To
make
the future."

It was a memorized speech but not delivered by rote. He spoke passionately, with feeling.

"I think killing her's your only choice."

"But isn't that ... a sin?"

He laughed. "You've done it before. We all have."

He was right. I was already a murderer several times over.

I nodded, pretended to agree and muttered some generic comments as a way of excusing myself. I was frightened by the turn this conversation had taken, and I wanted to go back into my little record store office and look at music posters and hide.

I'd talk to Virginia some other time, I decided as I made my way back across the corridor. For the moment, I'd just avoid Kyoko as much as I could and play her off when I ran into her.

I returned to my office and spent the rest of the day writing nontaxing letters about music to
Rolling Stone
and
Vibe
and
Spin
.
 

"That's freaky," Stan said, and Shamus nodded in agreement. The three of us were on the sidewalk outside the building, getting ready to trek through the parking lot to find our individual cars.

"Yeah," I said glumly. I'd just finished telling them about Kyoko but hadn't mentioned my conversation with Henry. I found it hard to believe it had even happened.

Shamus looked around at the other departing Letter Writers. "Is she here? Do you see her?"

"I'm not looking," I admitted. "I don't want to accidentally make eye contact. She'd take that as a come-on."

"Could
I
hit on her? Hey, maybe if I distracted her, gave her what she needed, she'd leave you alone."

"Go ahead," I offered. "Be my guest."

"She might be waiting for you at home," Stan said seriously. "Maybe in your bed."

The thought had occurred to me.

"You want me to come to your house? Or you want to crash at mine tonight?"

"Running away just because you're offered a little strange? Dude!"

We both looked at Shamus, and he shut up, embarrassed.

"No," I said, resigned. "It's my problem. I have to learn to deal with it."

"Well, good luck," Stan said. "You have my number. Call me if you need me."

"Me, too," Shamus declared.

We said good-bye and started off toward our respective cars, me on the lookout for a lurking Kyoko crouching down behind one of the parked sedans, vans or SUVs.

"At least it's keeping your mind off the witch!" Stan shouted, waving.

I held up my middle finger to show him what I thought of his humor and walked over to my car, unlocking the door. She wasn't hiding in the backseat, so that first hurdle was jumped. I quickly got in, pressed the automatic door lock button and started the engine.

I saw her on my way home.

She was standing on the corner of Brea Boulevard and Imperial Highway, in front of a gas station, waving at me as though I were in a parade and she one of the spectators lining the route. She'd changed her clothes, and she had on a short tight skirt and a midriff-revealing top. I was supposed to be turned on, I guess, and she did look sexy, but it was in a slutty, trashy way that made me even more determined to stay as far as possible from her.

I sped home, knowing she would not be able to beat me there now. I parked the car, ran into the condo, closed and locked the front door and made sure everything was sealed up tight.