The Letters (14 page)

We loved him, and we loved each other. We were a family, and we still are. Not even his death can take him away from us or us from him. I feel him with me, Sam. And you, too. Close your eyes and know I’m holding your hand, thanking you for what you did, for going to Paul, for bringing our son back to me.

I can’t sleep. I tried, but it’s not going to happen.

Do you know Rumi’s poem “Love Dogs”? I’ve been thinking about it, ever since reading your last batch of letters. It’s beautiful and haunting, and makes me think of you. It speaks of a dog moaning, and his master hearing. That ineffable connection between two souls.

The grief you cry out from draws you toward union.

Can you see why that line makes me think of you, especially now? The poem is for you, but also for Grabby, Sneak, Wiley, Dash, Blondie, Dutch, Snowball, Kya, and, especially, my girls—Jenny and Penny.

And for Martha. Thank her for me…or maybe I’ll thank her myself.

Hadley

To Martha Rich:

December 12

Dear Martha,

I just sent Sam a letter asking him to thank you for me, but I decided that what I really want to do is write you myself. I need to thank you for…well, for more things than you can know. Starting with helping Sam visit the site of our son’s death. I’m not sure how much he’s told you about us, about the history between us, and how I felt about his trip to the Arctic, to visit Paul’s crash site.

I didn’t want him to go at all. It wasn’t long after we got the news of Paul’s death that Sam began to think about going to Alaska. Not to bring home Paul’s body—the Alaskan authorities made those arrangements, and we buried him near our home—but to see the spot, to lay eyes on it, to touch the ground. I think part of him believed it wasn’t really true, that until he actually
went
there, saw it, he could believe that it was all a terrible mistake. Maybe that’s why it took him so long to go. He could never bear to visit Paul’s grave. But he was determined, finally, to see where he died.

At first it was assumed that I would go with him. To Sam, it was our duty as Paul’s parents. Now, reading his letters, I have to ask myself many questions…why didn’t I want to go? Was it really because I felt I’d had more than I could take? Seeing our son’s remains, seeing his name on his headstone? Paul’s body was home—he was already buried, so why would I want to travel into the terrible territory that had taken his life?

Sam became—there’s only one word for it—obsessed. He lived, slept, and ate Alaska. He took many assignments during this time, and he’d come home from wherever he was with stories of people he’d met, people who’d gone into the bush. He researched the ways to reach Paul’s crash site, learned that there were only two ways—helicopter and dogsled. Then he learned that the only helicopter pilot stationed up past Laika Star, a guy who’d been taking trappers and fisherman into the country, had died in a crash. So then it came down to dogs and hiking.

This is all stuff that you know. Sam likes to talk—I’m sure you know that by now, too, sharing a tent with him. I loved that about him, from the time we were young. The way he would tell a story, going on and around, weaving it all together. Other women complain their husbands don’t talk; that was never the case with Sam. So I’m wondering what, how much, he told you…I wonder how he presented it to you. I find myself, a little, wanting to defend myself to you.

It doesn’t matter, though…the important thing is that you helped him get there safely, helped him leave the photo at the site. That was his idea, but in the end it meant so much to me. I can only imagine how it was for Sam, to do that. I know he got sick on that last leg, and he’s never been good at taking care of himself. He’s a force of nature, and nothing can keep him down. I hope he’s doing what the doctor tells him.

Maybe we’ll meet someday, Martha. Until then, please know you have my deepest thanks and respect. May your holidays be bright…

Yours,
Hadley West

December 13

Dear Sam,

It’s getting close to Christmas, and I miss you terribly. Julie is coming out tomorrow, and she’ll stay the night. I’m looking forward to seeing her, and I wasn’t last week; I think it’s a combination of getting your letters, knowing that things are at rest in a new way—that you’ve been there, borne witness, left our picture there, and you’re almost on the way home. That plus Julie herself. You’re right—we always enjoyed her. She’s a good girl, and I love her for wanting to stay in our lives.

Sam, by now I assume Martha has told you I wrote to her. Just a thank-you note to let her know how much I appreciate what she did for you. Your letters are full of so many names, people I feel I know—or should know. Gus, Cindy, even poor Kilkenny. You mentioned that you said something for him. You didn’t say “prayer” because that’s not your way. It’s not really mine either, but I stopped into the island chapel this morning and lit candles. One for you, one for Paul, and one for Kilkenny.

And now I’m back home, sitting by the kitchen window, looking out into the darkness. Some of the houses are strung with white lights; I can see them in the distance. The house next door has Christmas candles in the windows, and I can see their tree all lit up in the living room.

December hit the island full-force—not so much with snow and ice, although there’s plenty of both—but with a hollow wind that never lets up. If loneliness was a weather pattern, this would be it. It’s easy to have the feeling that you’re all alone in the world, that the wind could blow you off the land straight into the sea. So there’s something like whistling in the dark here, the way the islanders light candles and brighten their houses with strings of light. It’s touching, S.

Where are you tonight? What are you doing, who are you with? Are there candles burning, are you by the fireside? Are you getting close to civilization? Will this be the last letter I send via our Arctic/Monhegan Special Delivery? You mentioned stopping by the charter company, and going to see Kilkenny’s wife. I suppose I’ve blocked both of those things out. I wonder what she’ll say to you, give you, things having to do with Paul. Maybe all these white lights glowing through the trees are helping me whistle in the dark, too. It’s not so scary knowing I’m not alone.

Your voice. You asked me about the inner voice. The one I hear at night, when the lights are out, when Cat is asleep at the foot of the bed, and the wind is howling up the headlands and into the pines, that’s yours. It always has been. And even with all our changes and separation—or maybe because of them—it’s still yours.

Confusion abounds, S. My neighbors are gathered around the hearth, getting ready for Christmas. The lobster season began on December 1, and in spite of the terrible weather, the boats go out every morning. I try to imagine what it must be like for Turner and the others, motoring out into the ocean before dawn, coming home after dark. They must see all the lights and feel warmer just knowing their families are waiting for them.

Your letters have been that for me. I wait for delivery every day, every morning, wondering whether there’ll be something from you. Today I got papers from the lawyer—he had a real estate person appraise the house and orchard, and he wanted me to sign them and return them right away. The rumors have started, and people are interested. Someone wants to bulldoze the orchard and build houses.

I tore the papers up. I don’t know about anything but this: I’m not selling. No one’s building houses in the orchard. That much I know for sure. That orchard is ours. Ida Reds, Macouns, and Winesaps. The best apples anywhere.

Something else came in today’s mail: a court date. We’re what’s called “on the docket.” Our lawyers are scheduled to show up at Superior Court on January 16, stand before a judge, and complete our divorce. Neither of us is required to be present at the dissolution of our marriage.

You know that question I mentioned to you a while back? I asked myself what I want. I’ve spent a good spell out here asking and asking.

All I know is, I want us to keep writing to each other.

Hadley

December 15

Dear Sam,

Julie just left…I walked her to the dock and saw her off on the mail boat. She stood in the stern waving until the boat disappeared around the edge of Manana, heading toward the mainland. We had such a wonderful time together, but do you know—I think it’s the last time she’s going to come.

For the first time, I questioned her more deeply about Paul and why he left when he did—why he couldn’t wait till graduation. And what she told me—I’m not over it yet. Get ready, Sam…

She got pregnant. They found out during Easter break, the year before he left. She said that her first reaction was excitement—and so was Paul’s. They loved each other, and they felt the way—I guess the way we did. But then the struggle began. The torment—that was the word she used. They were so young, and in school, and she couldn’t imagine having a baby and continuing at Amherst.

She weighed leaving college for a year, having the baby. She told me Paul wanted to marry her—to him, it wasn’t even a question. He wanted to tell us—he told her he knew we would help them out with rent and expenses, all of it. She told me to remember back then, that Easter…how she had come to visit us, and how I’d made her a basket filled with colored eggs and chocolates, just like Paul’s. And she was sick the whole time—she was so pale and sick to her stomach, and I held her hair while she threw up in the upstairs bathroom in the middle of the night.

And I
did
remember, Sam. You were in bed, but getting ready to leave in the morning for a trip, I forget where now. And Paul was pacing the hallway, up and down, while I tended to Julie. I remember telling him to go to bed, settle down—she had a stomach flu and would be fine. But he wouldn’t—he stayed right outside the bathroom door.

I remember helping Julie back into bed, getting her a cold cloth for her head, asking her if she felt like a glass of ginger ale. She just shook her head, buried her face in the pillow. I remember wondering if she’d had too much to drink—they’d gone out with some of their friends, and I thought maybe she’d overdone it. It didn’t occur to me that she was pregnant—why not? I wonder now. It didn’t even cross my mind, at least not consciously.

But she was, eight weeks, and they were going to tell us that weekend. And then—what she had wasn’t morning sickness, but a miscarriage. That night, after I tucked her in, Paul sneaked into her room, and she told him she was having cramps. He stayed with her, held her hand. She said he ran down around dawn, to get us to help her, but we’d left—I had to drive you to the airport, and then stop at Gillian’s house on the way back.

As I spun back, trying to put together my memory of the weekend, it’s all hazy—I do remember driving you, and I think I remember picking Gillian up and going to the museum for lunch, and I vaguely recall coming home and finding a note from Paul—that Julie had decided to go home early, and he was driving her. If anything, I was probably happy at the prospect of a day or so alone with him—such a rare thing at that time of all our lives.