The Delphi Room (16 page)

I think it is fair to wonder whether you were indeed murdered by the Shadowman. He compelled you, after all, so would he not be convicted in court, at least as an accessory? Not that I can lay claim to extensive knowledge of legalities, but in your case there were most definitely mitigating circumstances.

Whether I am a wimp or not is immaterial: do not ever criticize my love for anyone. Your Eternity in that bedroom will be lonely without my letters.

Since you like “blistering” honesty: I know what really happened to your dad. I am sorry, Velvet. Do you think some legacies are inescapable? Perhaps the Shadowman stalked your father, also. What a murderous demon.

Your novella will see the light, if it is meant to. Though I always thought these things would cease to be of any concern after one had died. The Divine Dissatisfaction of the artist keeps us marching forward, even if we cannot march far. My mother’s painting life was constantly consumed by frustration. Dissatisfaction was certainly her lot. I saw her destroy many of her paintings with an X-acto knife. And other things too, like wallpaper. She liked to destroy as much as she liked to create. Perhaps destruction and creativity felt the same to her. You are correct, she should not have dressed me up like a girl, and I never much cared for it when she did. Grief is a poison. It was not until I was older that I came to enjoy women’s clothing. The softness of it, like a security blanket.

I remember standing on my bed in the middle of the night when I was a kid, looking out the window at the street below and the stars above. Already I loved Clara Bow (through her movies, only—she did not come to visit me until I was older), already I loved Marlowe and would recite his lines to myself whenever I was alone. On those nights, looking out at the world from my bedroom, I felt myself expand, so full of possibility. How quickly the world absorbs us, and we forget where we are going. Or perhaps we never really knew.

Yours very truly,

Brinkley

P.S. Astaire and Ginger, those were the days. I do not blame you for swearing off Gene Kelly after the Shadowman appropriated his raincoat.

Dear Brinkley,

All right. Fine. Truce. (For the record, I don’t think I have to worry about you stopping your letters. An empty threat. You would be just as lonely as me. No one else is accepting your mail.) We don’t seem to have an endless supply of paper, and there’s no sense in using it up fighting about things that are irrelevant now.

My mother always insisted that my father had been hit by a car. (An existential car, perhaps? A meaningless Mustang with no muffler? And if she was going to lie to me, why didn’t she think up a better lie than that?) So if the topic ever came up, I always insisted the same. But I know what really happened. Clearly, some legacies are inescapable. And you’re right, the Shadowman may have targeted my dad first, and after doing away with him, eventually fixated on me.

I never was an optimist; that much is obvious. But you have given me hope. Because even though you’re a wimp, you’re a good wimp. Someone as good as you could never be left here for Eternity. Even if I deserve this fate, I refuse to believe that you do.

I thought I was going to Heaven, thought I would meet my dad. (Maybe he’s locked in the room next door. Does irony exist in Hell?) But given the circumstances, the pain I have caused those I love, I see now that I was far too generous with myself in expecting that there would be any measure of mercy for me. I could’ve tried harder to resist the Shadowman’s threats. Your case is entirely different, though. If this is Hell, then Heaven must exist and there must be a place in it for you. I am terrified that you will leave me. Terrified, and yet I hope, for your sake, that I’m right.

Memories are the living monsters of this place. Everything in this room reminds me of what used to be, and everything in my mind is scourging me from the inside out. I remember staying with my mother and her then-boyfriend in a cabin by the sea. From the beach I would gather buckets of shells and then sit on the deck in the hot afternoons to lay them out in patterns. I remember the smell of sun on the wood cabin mixed with the salt from the sea, a heavy, warm, sad smell, the scent of tears. The shells, mostly broken, joined to form jagged hearts. Sometimes a small star. An unoriginal artist, I was. My mother and her boyfriend mostly stayed out of the heat, sitting inside in front of a fan, drinking beer and eating salted peanuts. I used to have dreams about Mr. Peanut dancing with me like Gene Kelly, and I often made my own monocle by biting the centre out of a cucumber slice. One evening my mother had too much to drink and went swimming, and nearly drowned. Her boyfriend had to rescue her. I sat on the deck watching them lying on the sand, her gasping and choking. Funny, I didn’t run down to the beach. I remember feeling like there was concrete in my shoes and in my hands. All I kept thinking was: I wish Delilah was here, I wish she had come with us. (She’d moved away, and we lost touch.)

Do we really love the people we think we love?

Sincerely, Velvet

P.S. I caught myself humming “As Time Goes By.” Irony reaches new heights.

Dear Velvet,

My mother has her reasons, I am sure, for being satisfied with my current predicament. But I am confused as to why the Powers That Be have not recognized my noble intentions, have not recognized that I took care of her much more than she ever took care of me. She was a beautiful woman, so beautiful that even I, the one who saw her every day, could look at her and miss a breath. Well, I do not have to tell you, you have seen her. Perhaps every man’s mother assumes mythological proportions that refuse to be diminished. Beautiful people can be deadly. I think she often wondered how it was that she produced such a physically inferior child, and I always wondered why it was that God failed to outfit her with the biological blinders that so many parents wear, the ones that cause them to regard an average-looking child as beautiful, and to see the promise of genius in the child’s ability to stack blocks. She used to speak often of how beautiful my sister was, but she didn’t keep any photographs of her around.

I was hit by a car and then I arrived here, without fanfare. I have said all that I can say about my mother and her feelings about me. If your mirror chooses to reveal anything else—it is out of my hands. Of course I was a sinner, but I tried hard, cobbled together an effort toward goodness, believing all the while that God was not as picky as God is at present demonstrating Itself to be. But maybe the concept of “trying” is really what is most hateful to the Higher-Up, such a pathetically human sweat- and tear-covered automatically self-excusing notion. If mercy were mine to give, I would lay it at your feet.

Memory is a ghoulish machine and the cog of memory is regret. I will not be missed by many on Earth and this realization is scorching. But I think Clara misses me. I need to believe that. So I mattered to one person. Perhaps that is all we need. I think I matter to you, now. Clara was hard on me and perhaps a wee bit misguided in some of her advice, but I could depend on her to appear with some regularity. Dependability is a great quality in a friend. She was always there for me, and I could tell her all my troubles. We would talk about cinema and the difficulties inherent in transitioning from silents to talkies. When I was with Clara, I never felt lonely.

Yours very truly,

Brinkley

P.S. Which Fred Astaire bit is your favourite?