Identity Issues (2 page)

"What thing?" I couldn’t see over my shoulder.

"This letter from Botswana."

I did a double–take. Jon looked freaked out. He ran a company, for God’s sake. He didn’t get freaked out.

He held it away from his body as if holding the rat poison we kept under lock and key in the garage, then examined it one more time before shoving it under my nose.

Jon was right. It could only be described as bizarre. The strange writing from the envelope carried over into the body of the letter. And the words were nothing less than threatening.

Short. Sweet. Weird.

I scratched my head. "What should we do with it?"

Jon shrugged and his expression changed. "I have no idea. I don’t know anyone in Botswana. Don’t worry about it." He turned on his heel and left me holding the letter.

That’s my husband. Dealt with. Done. If he ignores a problem, it ceases to exist.

Whenever the rubber band gets stretched thin at our house, I take over.

Having kids made me sort of a detective, and I took pride that I thought to save the letter and envelope and personally deliver them to the post office the following Monday morning. I remembered hearing that the postmaster should be alerted if you receive something questionable in the U.S. mail. I remembered the white powder days, too. And while this didn’t constitute a ticking bomb or a package with a missing digit, it could have been.

The postmaster agreed with me.

"Yes, ma’am," he said, "you have a strange and unusual letter here. I can see where you’d perceive a threat. But the letter’s from out of the country. No actual crime’s been committed at this point. No direct personal threat."

I begged to differ, but I kept my mouth shut.

"We like to wait for the actual crime to occur in the good old U.S. of A.," he continued. "Civil rights, ma’am. I’m sorry, but I doubt any other government agency would be interested, either."

As Jon and I cleaned up the dishes that night, I asked, "Do you remember that trip you took to Toronto right after we were married?"

"You mean the stolen passport trip?"

"That one."

"Why? Do you think it has something to do with the letter?" That Jon of mine’s a fast thinker.

I tapped my finger on my upper lip. "Maybe."

"I can see where there might be some connection, but I can’t make the dot to dot right now," Jon said.

"Me, either." The dread chewing at my gut told me there had to be something more to this. I could feel it.

‘If your life has value,’ the letter had said.

P
RE–JON, I’D written off the entire male species. After a horrid marriage and an even nastier divorce, I’d determined that men were just a series of problems: ego, sex, money. All of it the ‘been there, done that’ misery. So a little over a decade ago, when walking with my head down, intent on pulling my toddler load in the Red Flyer wagon, I literally bumped into him. He startled me with his intelligent green eyes. His suit coat slung over his shoulder made it easy to see the outline of broad shoulders under his starched white shirt. The easy smile he shared won me over, that and his polished confidence as he grabbed the wagon handle, strolled a couple of blocks with me, and then casually mentioned a company picnic, kids invited. I guess I’m easy, or maybe just a pushover for a good–looking guy who smells like spice.

Now that we’ve been married for eleven plus years and the honeymoon’s worn off, I’ve decided that Jon’s an interesting guy. He’s a man with systems. Routines he’s developed over the years keep him in order. He’s methodical. If he skips a step in a customary routine, he rewinds until he’s back on track.  For instance, each and every morning that Jon’s in town, he removes the cream container from the top shelf of the fridge. If the cream is not on the top shelf, he assumes we’re out. The cream goes into the travel mug first, precisely two fingers worth, and the mug sits next to the coffee maker, in the exact same spot, to the right of the machine at the front edge of the counter. Upon creaming his mug, the coffee is poured in. This way, the exact amount of cream goes into each serving. Jon does one thing at a time and does not, I repeat, does not multi–task. I mention this for a reason.

Jon doesn’t dwell on problems. He’s organized, focused, productive. His methodology keeps our complicated life simple. At least, that is his goal.

I knew Jon well enough to understand that he blew off the threatening letter incident to keep me from worrying too much. I also knew that he had no intention of putting any of these troubling pieces together. Jon is
the
master of denial. Even after his stolen passport in Toronto, he didn’t mention it until after his new one arrived in the mail.

I swear Jon has shoe boxes for uncomfortable issues. They’re all closed up and stacked on some shelf way in the back of his brain under lock and key. There might even be a barred gate in front of particular issues. From Jon’s viewpoint, two pairs of shoes, one brown and one black, are all you need. One pair on your feet and one pair on the closet floor. Jon has a place for everything, and everything of Jon’s has a place.

And inevitably, he’d be leaving town again soon, the crises mine to deal with.

Two weeks after the letter arrived, the phone rang. Jon’s business had taken him overseas again. The LCD read 2:00 a.m. and panic set in that someone had died, or, probably worse, the ringing phone would awaken my sleeping children. As I fumbled for the receiver in the dark, I prayed something horrific hadn’t happened.

A voice, understandable, but with a heavy British accent, asked for Jon. Unavailable, I answered. Did this guy not know it was the middle of the night? And I was home alone with the kids?

Anyway, the jack–ass insisted Jon must be there and he must speak with him. The urgency in his voice aggravated the heck out of me. First of all, I didn’t get that much sleep as it was and my alarm would be going off in a couple of hours. Second, I couldn’t produce Jon no matter how hard I tried. My impulse control flew out the window. I told him that Jon worked in Japan this week.
How dumb is that?
He didn’t appreciate my response, demanding that I locate Jon and have him return his call at once.

The nerve of this guy. "Who are you?"

"I am Alexander Bredel. I come from Botswana."

Now he had my attention. "My husband doesn’t know anyone in Botswana," I replied.

"Yes, I am afraid that he does." Mr. Bredel’s proper English sounded mechanical. "He must call me straight away. It is of the greatest importance. You must reach him. Have him telephone me at this number." Like I had a pen and paper right there.

"Look, my husband has never been to Botswana. He doesn’t know anyone there. It’s impossible for me to reach him." I scrambled out of bed and blind–searched the nightstand drawer for a writing implement. "I’m willing to take your number and have him call you when he arrives back in town."

"It is urgent that I speak with him. I cannot wait." He rattled off his phone number.

"I’ll have him call you when I hear from him. I can’t help you any more than that. Goodbye, Mr. Bredel." I hung up without waiting for a response.

Wide awake and worried, I tried to piece together events.

Jon’s stolen passport, a disturbing letter from Botswana, and now this call.
From Botswana
.  Mr. Bredel’s tone had sounded threatening. I wondered if the letter had come from him. Would such a seemingly educated man have the atrocious penmanship contained in the letter? I wondered why he thought my Jon was the man he was looking for. Full of questions, I pitched my legs over the side of the bed and forced myself up. No more sleep tonight.

Jon called that evening. When I told him about the phone call, he blew it off. I felt my blood pressure spike.

"I don’t know anyone in Botswana, so there’s nothing to worry about. They’ve got the wrong guy."

Nice. Jon’s in Japan, I’m home alone with the kids, and he’s not going to worry about it.

"There’s no reason for me to call him back," Jon reiterated. "I don’t know any Bredel, or anyone in Botswana. Let it go."

Easier said than done.

I love my husband, but give me a break. Let it go? Forget it? Not a chance. He could go on with his life, visiting plants and attending essential meetings. Meanwhile, I had to deal with some nut job calling me in the middle of the night.

Then again, things at home remained quiet for a few weeks. Maybe Jon was right.

But the next time Jon was abroad, Mr. Bredel called again. Polite this time, he remained unfazed by the wake–up call he’d made three hours too early. I simply told him, "Jon’s not here."

Again, he left his phone number.

Mr. Bredel and I became accustomed to this communication. He called often, I took messages, and Jon never returned his calls. Our little routine.

On the surface, our lives were peaceful. Other than the normal family chaos that five kids created, Jon and I had made a point of living out in the country, away from the hustle and bustle. We’d found an old Victorian fixer–upper. After gutting the entire house, we’d rewired, re–plumbed, repaired, and repainted. We now lived among hundred year old pin oak, cherry, and tulip trees. I sat on my front porch, a wrap around, and relaxed after a harried day. Hidden by broad thick leaves, I spied on the neighbors walking their dogs or watched the kids play ball. Other than the fact that I double checked the dead bolts every night when Jon traveled, utopia began and finished my days.

Darned if Mr. Bredel didn’t call again. Would this ever end? This time, he sounded downright pissed. I calmly explained to him that Jon did not know him and would never call him back. Mr. Bredel couldn’t let it go.

"How do you know my husband?" I asked.

"Your husband taught at my school, Acacia Primary School, in Botswana."

"My husband has never been to Botswana, and does not teach," I said in my best schoolteacher voice. I set the receiver into the cradle, praying he wouldn’t call back.

The following night when the phone rang at 10:00 p.m., it caught me off guard. I’d gotten the kids down for the night, pulled out the newspaper, and curled up in the worn overstuffed chair that served as my personal comfort zone. I’d spoken with Jon earlier, and friends and family knew better than to telephone at this late hour. Surprisingly, I heard a woman’s voice with a heavy, English–is–my–second–language accent.

"Mrs. Stitsill?" she asked.

"Yes," I answered.

"My name is Aebling Bredel. You have spoken with my husband several times, and I wonder that you have never had your husband return his calls." Her voice reminded me of the battle–ax nurse at the pediatrician’s office. Nasal, bossy, and disapproving.

"Yes, I’ve spoken to your husband, but you must understand that my husband has never been to Botswana. He has always lived in the Midwestern United States and while he does travel on business, it’s never to Africa."

"Your husband worked under my husband’s direction when he taught in Botswana years ago as part of his service in the Peace Corps."

"You have the wrong Jon Stitsill, Mrs. Bredel. My husband has never been in the Peace Corps, has never been a teacher, and has never been to Botswana."

"My husband has an urgent matter to discuss with him."

"Well, it seems that while you have found a man with the same name, my husband is not the man you are looking for."

"How old is your husband?" Mrs. Bredel seemed determined to get some information.

I took a moment to think about this. Maybe if I divulged some facts, it would convince this woman and her husband that my Jon wasn’t their guy.

"Mrs. Bredel, I’m sorry, but my husband is not the man you are looking for. He is forty years old. He has lived and worked in the United States his entire life. He travels extensively, but only for business and never to Africa."

Our phone call ended with each of us using our best manners.

"Thank you for your time, Mrs. Stitsill." Mrs. Bredel’s tone bespoke exasperation.

"You’re welcome." I recradled the receiver.

The following Saturday morning, we were poised to head out the door for coffee when the phone rang at 8:45 a.m.

I answered in my cheeriest voice. "Hello?"

"May I speak with Jon, please?" The female voice was unfamiliar.

I wrestled momentarily and then tossed the idea that this call would yank Jon into the office. Then, the familiar accent kicked up recent memories. A split second later, I summoned him to the phone, he picked up, and I stayed on the line.

"It’s Suzanne."

"Suzanne who?" Jon asked.

"You know. Don’t play games with me!"

"I
don’t
know. Who are you?" Jon said.

"Suzanne from Botswana."

"Well, Suzanne from Botswana, I’m sorry, but you’ve reached the wrong guy. Someone’s been calling lately, and I’ve told them each time that they have the wrong Jon Stitsill."

If something happened to one of us, Jon evidently assumed it happened to both of us. Interesting. Jon had never been home for those calls or when the letter had arrived. Maybe now he’d understand what I’d gone through in his absence.