The Letter

Fri  Sep 28, 2007  4:58 am

This is another story I wrote back in high school. In fact the setting is high school. The story has the lead character getting A's in English. I must admit that was not like me. I got mostly C's in that subject.

The Letter
By J. J. Dewey

I could feel him looking over my shoulder breathing saturated excretions of air down my neck as I studied a thesis that had been returned to me.

"You got an 'A' -- uh?" he said. The vibrations came through a hefty wad of gum.

I didn't answer. A reply seemed out of place, that is, assuming he could read. The grade was staring at him from the page.

"You get lots of A's on things you write," he continued, widening his eyes by lazily heightening his brow pretending to be reading the first page.

"Some teachers grade late at night. They aren't very wide awake," I said for the sake of the expected belittlement.

"The teacher says you could be a poet 'cause you use all those high sound'n adjuctives (Mispronounced, not misspelled) and that sort of stuff." He paused a second..."Why I'll bet you could write anything you want," he said slapping me on the back supposedly to give me the feeling that I had a gift which must not be wasted.

"Yea, if I want to write 'get lost' I simply press my pen on the paper and form the letters..."

"Aw -- you know what I mean," he said interrupting my humor. I think you are a good writer -- and there's something..."

"I knew you were building up to something," I said as if I had caught a criminal in the middle of a dire act. "What is it this time -- another term paper?"

"No, no, not that -- it's something more important." Then for the first time since I've known him, he talked in a serious tone, "You've written letters to Jane, that girl of yours, before, haven't you?"

"Yes, of course."

"Then you know how to do it?"

"Do what?"

"Ya know that girl I told you about?" he said, backing up.

"Which girl?" I said, not joking.

He looked at me as if he were irritated that I didn't know. "It's Mary. You know her. She's got golden hair, blue eyes -- big blue eyes. They're real purtee. Then she's got a cute smile and she's this tall."

If I hadn't known she was about 5'3" I would have assumed from his gestures that she varied from four to six feet.

"Sounds like you're doing alright with the adjectives yourself."

"But I want you to do it -- to write her a letter. I can't get the right words. I've tried, but I can't."

"I don't know..."

"This will be the last time I'll pester you. I'll get someone else to write the rest of my English themes -- but I want you to do this one. It's got to be good."

I knew that if I didn't agree that he would plague me to illness as he's done in the past. "I'll do it this one last time," I said, knowing it wouldn't be.

His face had a smile as he walked away in ecstatic movements. In a way I felt sorry for him even though he was the cornerstone of our football team. He was so large, burly, and carefree; yet so dumb. If not for soft-hearted guys like me, he'd never make it through high school. Now, in his senior year, he's taking sophomore subjects.

As he walks his light fluffy long, dry, brown hair seems to bounce in and out of place. At each practice the coach threatens to scalp him if he doesn't get a haircut, but the ole boy just isn't swayed by the ways of the world and any recollection of the coach's words is relinquished from the grip of his memory.

He seems to be half introvert and half extrovert. The former dominates when he is out of his element, but when in it, he's the life of the party, as he always is. Upon entering the door to a social event his words are always those which reach the ear first. On the other hand, when he's in a classroom or alone all the world is null and void. I'd guess he'd be dreaming about being the life of the party -- or presently, of Mary.

That night as I started to write the letter, my mind shifted to Mary. As I drew a picture of her with my imagination I agreed that she was pretty, but somehow she didn't seem to be the kind of a girl that was made for an extra sociable football player.

I have met her a couple times and she appears much more conservative than him -- not really quiet, but just not loud enough to go with someone so gregarious. She's friendly, but not overly so, and like he said -- she has a pretty smile -- a lovely smile. She seems slightly meek, but just enough to make her all the more attractive, and puts on her a rare aura in comparison to the average girl. Sometimes I wish Jane were more like her.

As the letter was reaching its end I realized that I had been putting real feeling into it, as if I were writing it to her on my own. It seemed odd that the quality appeared much better than any I remember writing Jane. As each line grew more vibrant, poetic, and meaningful, I blamed it on my being in a sane state of mind.

As I wrote the last word, I knew I had before me my masterpiece of creation in words. I hadn't meant to do quite so well, for I feared that in doing so he'd come hounding me for more.

I read it over and over with growing satisfaction. I figured that I could send it to Jane someday, but first we'd see how Mary would react. If this thing goes over the way it should, she'll probably fall for that clod; in a way that's too bad.

The next morning a ringing phone replaced my dreams with partial consciousness. It was Jane. She wanted me to bring a copy of the play we were in to school -- also, she reminded me that this day was the second anniversary of our going steady. I had forgot, of course. She didn't ask if I remembered' instead, her reminder told me that she assumed I had. As usual, she was right.

She's a bug on psychology. You've heard it said that everyone's an amateur psychologist -- well, she's a practicing one of them.

I plan on being an artist, but every time I mention the word she has me lying on a couch practicing her power of influence telling me that I'll die poor. Be a writer, a great philosopher, a scientist... but not an artist. Sometimes I think that the only reason she went with me was to try and understand why I desire to enter that absurd profession which I enjoy so well. Her heart was softened somewhat when I drew her portrait. Even though she showed unexpected appreciation, and values it above all her other possessions, she stood steadfast and unchanging in her outline of my future.

She's dominating in a rather curious sort of way. She seems to know psychology so well it scares me. I go to pick her up, and she suggests doing something or going somewhere completely undesirable to my tastes. Well, we always end up doing things her way, and the funny thing is that I never feel like I'm giving in when I agree.

At times she seems to see right through me. Sometimes we just sit and stare at each other. She tries to guess what I'm thinking, and, in turn I try and figure out what she's thinking I'm thinking. One thing, she's never a bore -- I've looked forward to each date of these past two years. I'm always interested in the facts derived from my latest psychoanalysis. I'm always provided with interesting data. Besides, she's interesting in other ways, she has a wide range of knowledge, including that way of expressing herself without words.

I stuffed an extra copy of the play, and the letter in my notebook and went to school. Jane was about the first person I saw. I look forward to seeing her each day just to see if she's ever going to allow herself to be susceptible to any of the current fads. The answer is always negative. With each passing day her light brown hair is always light brown, and her light complexion is forever light. She is different by being one of the few who doesn't try to be. I'm glad she's unchanging. I like the way her straight hair curls up at her shoulders. Her slender body fits well into her choice selection of clothes, but not to the extent of making one gasp as she walks by.

After a few strolls through the hall we stopped at her locker to get her books. At this point she asked me for a copy of the play. I was fumbling around in my notebook trying to find that play when out of oblivion came one of my buddies who has his own way of saying hello. You know the type -- he always grabs the handiest part of your body and exerts pressure there. Usually, he grabs the back part of the neck or shoulder, and when you're sitting down he thrusts his phalanges into that part of the leg above the knee. It was slightly different this time. Oh, no, he couldn't have used my neck or shoulder for his medium of exchange; it had to be my ribs, and when someone gets into my ribs, I say uncle. When he exerted a thrust of power into my bosom that did it. I exhaled the remaining air in my lungs with a horrifying gasp which caused me to lose the hold I had on the books. Within the next instant all the contents of my notebook were scattered evenly upon the floor... And, of course Jane had to help me pick up the mess.

I need not explain the next few minutes -- you probably guessed what the first object she picked up was, and what she did after she read it. Her eyes reflected her thoughts as she read and I could only wait for that inevitable answer. Everyone who was in school remembers the day it was uttered for the incident was circulated far and wide. Because I happened to be in the direct path of this utterance, a profound scar was placed on my memory.

I can hear those words over and over as I think back to that memorable day, "OH, imagine, your soul weeps from the yearning for the companionship of her. She is the beauty of the flowers; she is nature's supreme creation. She is that person for whom your heart beats exalted surges through your swelled veins..." She went on for awhile, that is until she realized she was being susceptible to the character traits of the average girl. She stopped in the middle of a sentence and breathed her last word to me, "Goodbye." That was it, she just said goodbye and walked away. As she did so, the letter slipped from her fingers and fell to the floor.

I was late for class that day. I don't know how long I stood there, leaning on a corner, looking at the letter; not reading it, just staring. My vision was centered on the unsigned closing. If I had only signed his name.

I cheered myself somewhat with the knowledge that we had to see each other at play practice. I assured myself that I could straighten it out there. We were the two leading characters, and were supposed to be in love. I'd guess they chose us because we apparently, at one time, thought we were.

Whatever you do, don't expect a woman to act the way you expect her to - especially Jane. At play practice she completely ignored me. To her I was a mere blob of non-organic matter. Her words went right through me. Nevertheless, she played her part better than ever; she fooled everyone but me, and I knew she had no intention of doing so. When not practicing our lines, I felt as if I were an unseen, unheard spirit. Every time I tried to explain she would do some little irritating thing such as combing her hair, or reading her notes. When she would finish this task she would ignoringly walk just enough in my direction to cause me to move a half of a step to avoid her.

As graduation day passed, I wondered if Jane has retained any memory of me, for not once during those last few months of high school did she absorb a word I spoke -- and not once did she speak a word to me. Every time I was near her I began to doubt my existence. Often I had to talk to someone to assure myself that I wasn't dead.

Well, how do you think this mess ended? Perhaps you think this is the same old plot and we'll make up and the rest of our life will be filled with roses and sunshine. But you don't know Jane. She doesn't go by the book. Nope, even as we went through college she showed no signs of compromise. Jane's different. She showed me -- she showed me that she had a mind of her own, that she had no dependence on me. Upon graduation from college she married this guy named Bill Smith. Of course, I'm not the kind who likes to be shown up, either. You see, I also got married. I happened to haven joined in holy matrimony to Mary. Name familiar? Yes, that's the Mary I wrote the love letter to. Word got around about that letter, and when Mary heard about it, she interpreted it the same as Jane, but took more kindly to it and... You guessed; it led to church bells.

And who is this Bill Smith that Jane married? Oh, yes, I forgot to tell you. He's the football player, the guy I wrote the letter for in the first place.

As for Jane, I hope she sees a copy of this someday. Then maybe she can use all the psychology of hers to analyze it and figure out the truth.

Copyright © 2007 by JJ Dewey, All Rights Reserved