University of Northern Iowa

The LetterAuthor(s): Stephen DixonSource: The North American Review, Vol. 271, No. 2 (Jun., 1986), pp. 38-39Published by: University of Northern IowaStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/25124728 .

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N A R

Stephen Dixon

THE LETTER

iXe goes to a corner of the room and reads the letter. "Dear Stanley. It will never be the same. It never really

was. One day. That's all I can say. Enough. So long. Louisa."

He folds the letter in half, puts it into his side jacket pocket, looks at the ceiling, shakes his fist at it, shoves his hands into his jacket pockets, one hand touches the let ter, he pulls it out, sits in the easy chair, turns the floor

lamp on and reads the letter. "Dear Stanley. I don't

know. Can you say why? Can I? Some things just happen. This did, we both know that, so it's why I have to write

this. But I can't write any more. It's too tough to. Good

bye. Louisa."

He crumples up the letter, throws it across the room, gets up, stamps the floor with his foot, stamps it again, goes to the window just to really do something but think of the letter, his foot kicks the letter as he walks to the

window, he looks at it, picks it up, sits in the couch, turns the side table light on, reads the letter. "Dear Stanley.

Did you have to say it? Did you have to act like that? Did I have to? Is it possible to answer these questions? More

important, is it necessary to? Forget it. I don't even know

why I try to explain. What I'm saying is these things you can't. See ya. Louisa."

He drops the letter behind the couch, gets up, punches his palm till it hurts, walks to the door, feels for his keys, leaves, walks to the elevator, turns and goes

back into the apartment and reaches behind the couch, fingers around till he finds the letter, pulls it out. It's not the letter. It's a rug cleaning bill from he doesn't know

when. Two years ago. Paid in full it says. He looks at the

rug. It could use a cleaning after two years. It could also

use a vacuuming or at least a good sweeping. He puts the

bill on the side table, fingers around behind the couch but can't find another piece of paper, pulls the couch out, sees

the letter among other debris: a ballpoint pen with its cap gone, a coat button, two coins. He pulls the couch out

more. A beer bottle cap, movie ticket stub, ballpoint pen cap, lots of dust balls. He picks up the letter and coins, puts the coins into his pants pocket, looks around for a

place to sit, sits on the rug and reads. "Dear Stanley. Remember when? Remember the bridge? Remember the

bridge's lights? Remember the do-not-walk-on dunes? Remember the wren? Remember when someone said that? Remember when someone said Tm not poetic, but life is?' Remember the response? Remember when some

one's eyes lit up someone's eyes with the bridge's lights? All remembrances. Or memories. If only. I'm saying 'If

only.' I'm saying 'IF only.' I'm saying 4IF ONLY, IF ONLY.' Oh god, goddamn. I'm sorry, Stanley, I'm sorry. No. Each try at this makes it worse, for you, me?us both? No. I have to go. Louisa."

He puts one corner of the letter between his teeth and

rips it in half. He stands and takes the two halves in each hand and throws them up and watches them float down.

38 June 1986

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FOUR-MINUTE FICTIONS

He kicks one half just before it hits the ground and it flips over and comes down almost on top of the other half on the ground. He puts his foot on both halves and mashes them. He goes to the closet, hits a row of his hanging clothes with his fist, several of his pants slide off their

hangers to the floor. He takes off his jacket and hangs it

up, holds one of its sleeves to his face and rubs it against his closed eyes. He runs back to the center of the room,

picks up the two letter halves, flattens out the creases as well as he can, holds the two halves together and reads. "Dear Stanley. Even mother said. Even father said, first

yours and then mine. Even Jack and Babs and Albert and Treat. They all said. They all felt. They all hoped but knew. Still, it continued. Will we never learn? That might sound trite, but try for a moment to say it another way. It's

what I'm going to sit down and think about later today: why we don't ever seem to learn?not necessarily us but

just people in general. Excuse me. Because as someone

also once said, 'You do go on. ' Or 'You can go on.

' But now

I'm going out. I have written myself out, completely out.

I must stop. I will, and now. Dear Stanley, goodbye. Louisa."

He tears the two halves into halves. He opens the window and holds his hand with the letter pieces in it outside the window. A car passes one way, a bus another.

Several vehicles?cars, trucks, a bus and motorbike?are

waiting at the corner for the light to change. He hears a

propeller plane, looks up. Clouds, and behind one, sun, but no plane. He pulls his hand in, closes the window to about an inch of the sill, sits on the bare floor directly below the window, fits the letter together and reads. "Dear Stanley. Someone phoned. You know who. It

was"? He turns each piece over and fits them together. ?"almost four. But in the morning. I didn't know the

time when the phone first rang. I knew it was late. Or

early. I'd gone to sleep around twelve at night. The

phone rang and rang. Rang and rang and rang. I wanted to answer it, I didn't want to. I told myself to answer it, I told

myself don't. I put my hand on the receiver, I took it off. I

kept it on, I kept it off. Rang and rang and rang and rang. What did? The phone! Forty or fifty times? Sixty perhaps? Then it stopped. That was the one call to me that night. Or morning. At least the one call while I was awake or the

only one that woke me. We both know whom from. We both know who rings like that and who has a tendency to call very late at night, but never that late. We both know

why too. Why that person rang like that and so late. Why why: all questions. Ring ring: all rings. Letter letter: all words. Goodbye goodbye: all goodbyes. Louisa."

He puts his mouth right up to the bottom of the letter, takes a deep breath and blows. The pieces scatter about one to two feet. He puts his mouth up to the two pieces that are closest together and blows harder this time. They separate about one to two feet. He puts his mouth up to the piece he's blown farthest from the original spot, takes an even deeper breath and blows. It flies up a few inches, he tries to grab it in the air but misses. He crawls around

collecting all the pieces, stands, tears them into little

pieces and throws them into the air. They come down on his head, some of them. One stays on his head. He can feel it. Right in the middle, very light. He takes it off and

reads it. "Someone phoned." He turns it over. Blank. He

mashes it between his fingers, drops it on the floor, picks up another piece and reads. "My love for" He reads. "My love for" He turns it over and reads. "Remember when?"

He turns it over and reads. "My love for" He picks up all the pieces, tries to put the second side of the letter

together on the floor. He has to flatten out most of the

pieces. Some of the pieces keep curling up after he's flattened them out and he has to flatten them out several times. It takes him a while to put the letter together but he does it. He reads. "Dear Stanley. Now is not the time.

My love for life is great. Forgive me for what might appear to be confusion here. This will be the last of these, I swear. Adieu. Louisa."

He gets up, kicks the couch, kicks it several times till his foot hurts, kicks it with his other foot and his shoe falls

off, slams the couch against the wall so hard that the wall cracks where the couch hit it, picks up his shoe and throws it across the room. It barely misses a print hanging on the

wall. He grabs a couch pillow, throws it at the print, it misses. He grabs the other couch pillow, throws it at the

print, it hits it, the print falls off its nail to the floor. The

glass breaks, the frame splits. He stamps across the room,

picks up the largest piece of glass and throws it at the couch. It hits the wall above the couch, glass flies back at

him, a piece nicking his cheek, another piece cutting his

leg. He smears blood from his cheek on the floor lamp shade. He puts his hand back on his cheek but the

bleeding seems to have stopped. He drops to the floor, rolls up his trouser leg, runs his hand over the blood there, slaps his hand down on the letter on the floor. He lifts his

hand, some of the letter pieces have stuck to it. He looks at the bottom of the second side of the letter still on the floor and reads. "Dear Stanley. What more? Can't think of

anything more. Can't think of anything at all but to say that I can't. Can't can't. This will have to be all then. This

will have to be all. This is all. Because there is no more. There can't be. There is not. There really isn't. I keep saying that in various or different ways but do I mean it?

Do I know it? Dear Stanley, I mean it and I know it and I believe it. Dear Stanley, there isn't. You shall see also

there isn't because there won't be anything else under

neath my last 'Louisa.' Under my last 'Goodbye, so long, see ya, adieu, Louisa.' Bye. Louisa."

There's nothing else after that. He collects all the letter pieces on the floor and puts them on the grate in the

fireplace. Several pieces fall through the grate. Other

pieces are still stuck to his hand. He gets a section of

newspaper off the bookshelf to the left of the fireplace, rolls it up very tight, sticks it under his arm, gets a book of

matches off the same shelf, lights a match, lights the

rolled-up newspaper with it, puts the newspaper roll under the grate, throws the lit match and book of matches on top of the grate, watches the letter pieces burn. The letter pieces the newspaper roll is on top of will probably

burn too. He picks the letter pieces off his hand and flicks them into the fire. One piece drops on the tile part in front of the fireplace. It's all red with blood. He turns it over and looks at the other side. Red. He leaves it in front of the fireplace, turns the easy chair to face the fireplace, sits in it and watches the fire. D

June 1986 39

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