The Open A’s
Carly Madden
As he flicked through the mail, a small, handwritten envelope caught his attention and his heart began to thump. Discarding the rest of the envelopes with typed words, he clutched to this specific one with both hands. It was from her. It had to be from her.
Although he’d never actually seen her handwriting before, he pictured her fingers dragging these letters across the paper. The a’s weren’t quite closed at the top, the t’s were barely crossed, and the single y was curled up at the bottom. Not many people wrote y’s like that anymore. This had to be from her. He was now sure of it.
On the other hand, he wasn’t quite sure of what to do from here. Should he rip it open and read what was inside? Should he save it for a day he really needed it? Should he throw it right in the fireplace to save himself from the painful process of reading her words? No. None of those felt right. He needed to find a happy medium. So, he sat down slowly on the couch, the cushions still too new to really sink into, staring at the curled y and the open a’s. They reminded him of her curled hair and her open-toed pumps—the ones she always complained about hurting her ankles only ten minutes after putting them on.
“Then why do you even bother wearing them?” he would ask. Every time she would answer,
“Because I look good in them.” She definitely did.
He shook himself out of his own memory and looked away from the letter, instead letting the brightness of the fire burn his irises. She had always insisted on having a fire going in the fireplace during the cold months. She said it made any room feel more warm and welcoming, in all meanings of the words. He had a theory that she was just cold all the time and used it as a compromise to his refusal to turn up the thermostat. Either way, whenever she was home throughout the months of October through April, there was a fire burning in the fireplace. He just kept it going now as a habit. Jacalyn didn’t like it, come to think of it. He would have to put it out soon.
His wife would be home soon, ready to ask him about his day and recount her own, so he knew he would eventually have to get up and actually do something about this letter. Or maybe he could wait until tomorrow? Jacalyn would be walking in at any moment—maybe there wasn’t enough time to make a decision like this now. Maybe he could throw it in the bottom drawer of his desk, face down, and deal with it
Though somehow he knew that wasn’t an option. He had to deal with it tonight. Looking back down at the curled y and barley crossed t’s, he let out a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. She used to sigh to get his attention sometimes. If she wasn’t at the center of a conversation for even a moment, she was determined to fix that, especially when it came to him. He would be working at his desk and hear a breath of air behind him from the couch. He often tried to ignore it the first few times, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of interrupting his work, but then she would resort to clearing her throat, coughing, or more sighs, growing progressively louder and louder. He could tell when she was finally about to speak though—a short, hollow huff would sound and he knew that was her final frustrated preparation to break into his train of thought for the last time. Sure enough, a few seconds later she would pipe in with some random statement or question that she had probably been planning for the last ten minutes.
She had done the same thing on their last day together all those years ago. Acting like this was normal for her. Although it made his blood boil, it was supposed to mean that everything was fine.
The front door opened slowly—he heard it even from the opposite side of the house. Jacalyn was home. Even though he knew he should stand up, meet her in the hallway, and spend the rest of the evening with her, he stayed there, sitting up uncomfortably straight against the new couch cushions. His eyes danced between the flames in front of him and the letter in his hands. He knew he should throw it in, let it be eaten by the flames. He wanted to. But he needed to read what was inside.
Maybe it contained the goodbye she never gave to him in person. Maybe it was an explanation after years of mystery. But maybe it was her final jab into his chest, a warning to stop looking for her. He hadn’t worried about that in a long time—in fact, he hadn’t even thought of her in at least a few years. It took the investigators telling him for the tenth time that she was undoubtedly fine, alive and well but just didn’t want to speak to him, to make him finally move on. That’s where he met Jacalyn, walking out of the police station and bumping into her on the stairs when he didn’t care enough to watch where he was going. He never told Jacalyn why he was at the station that day. He never talked about her.
“Are you hungry? What should I make for dinner?” Jacalyn appeared in the doorway of his office. Her graying hair was up in a bun today, a handful of straight, fraying pieces shooting out around her ears and the back of her neck. He could tell it had been a long, hard day at work for her.
“Hello to you too,” he joked in an attempt to seem perfectly normal, subtly sliding the letter under his thigh and out of view.
“Hi,” she grinned back. “Leftovers, takeout, or something new?”
“You pick, I’m not too hungry.”
“Something new it is. I found this recipe on Facebook that I really want to try. You’ll like it.”
He nodded, approving the idea but not really caring.
“Care to help?” she asked, folding her arms across her chest and leaning on the door frame. He took in a breath and held it for a moment, trying to think of what to say.
“I…actually have a migraine, so I think I’ll…rest for a little while longer. Call me when it’s almost done and I’ll set the table.”
“It’s probably all the harsh heat and fumes from that fire.”
“You’re right, I’ll put it out.”
With that, Jacalyn blew him a kiss and turned to walk away. He listened to her footsteps shuffle down the hall. He knew she was in the kitchen when the slamming of cupboards startled him and the soft melody of one of her CDs drifted into his office. He got up abruptly and closed the door, careful to do so quietly.
For the next half hour or so, he sat at his desk, hands folded on his lap to keep them from shaking, staring at the letter. It was on the table infront of him, the open a’s, uncrossed t’s, and curled y staring right back.
Why after all this time had she chosen to write him? And why was he suddenly so positive that she had?
44 years.
She couldn’t just show up in his life again after 44 years. Especially when he had tried so hard to find her while she was supposedly trying so hard to avoid him. Waking up to find her gone wasn’t too much of a surprise that morning—it was typical of her to go for a run or head into work early. It was when she didn’t pick up for their daily lunch break call and then never came home that evening that he started to worry. He paced the floor for hours, trying to figure out where she could be. He called her friends, her office, her family, local hospitals, and anywhere else he could possibly think of, but found nothing that pointed to her whereabouts.
That night he slept alone in their bed, although he barely actually slept.Mostly he just stared at the wall, the ceiling, the phone, the open bedroom door, the empty pillow next to him. There was a broken piece of her hair on the case, wavy and dark. He brushed it away, making the pillow nice and clean for her to lay her head on upon her return home.When the sun began to blind him through the curtains the next morning and she still wasn’t beside him,he stood up and walked to the police station for the first time, still in his pajamas.
What if this letter was old? Maybe she wrote it all those years ago around the time she left and the police had it saved as evidence. Maybe a young intern was going through old boxes of closed cases and found it in a sealed bag, unsent. Maybe that’s where the explanation was this entire time.
But maybe it wasn’t—maybe it was brand new. Maybe she hadn’t actually cared enough to even write him a letter all those years ago. Maybe she didn’t even care enough now—was it possible something had happened to her and she just needed his help? Maybe they had a surprise child together who needed extra assistance paying back the debt of grad school.
After 44 years of wondering, he was tired of the word “maybe.”It haunted his dreams and thoughts to the point where it was etched into the back of his eyelids, into every choice he made, into every fiber of his being.
Maybe.
Taking a deep breath, he picked up the letter. He ran his fingers over the open a’s and the curled y one last time before turning it over and shoving his thumb under the seal. Within seconds the envelope was open and tossed aside, and he was left holding its contents face down in front of him. He flipped it over, his hands shaking, blurring the words written on the other side.
Tristan,
Thank you so much for attending my luncheon last week. I’m sorry Jacalyn couldn’t make it, but it was great to see you again. We all appreciated you coming.
Let’s plan a golf trip soon.
Sincerely,
Jacob
He stared at the open a’s, uncrossed t’s, and curled y’s.
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