Part Three
Return to Sender
Foreword
The following letters were in the same box as the bestiary of part 2, at the bottom of a precariously stacked balance of old journals and novels. I should have mentioned that then, I think, but I hadn’t planned to put these letters in the same book with the bestiary and mine. But as I sat there pouring over the pages I felt I had to include them. The context was necessary.
The letters were in worse shape than the notebook. Water got into the bottom of the box somehow. Maybe a leak, maybe just age, I don't know if it was there before me or the damage was all on my watch. Either way the damage wasn't even. Some pages just had spots in the corners. Others had bled through so bad whole paragraphs dropped to the color of weak tea. One page had a coffee ring dead center, a near complete circle… a semicircle. And mold got the rest. A gray fuzz blooming along the old cursive ink of almost every letter.
I want to explain what I did. I think it matters, because… well… let me explain.
I did what you're supposed to do. What anyone would do. Right? I read what's there. Where a word was gone, I looked at the gap… many gaps, and all the letters around it. I paid attention to the way the sentence moved, literally and figuratively, and I filled it in best I could. That's normal work. You know it is. Or at least, I keep telling myself anyway, even when I see my own writing forming letters… then words thatI know I never consciously chose. People restore old manuscripts like this all the time. There’s nothing strange about it.
But here's the part that I can't escape.
It came easy. Too easy. You're supposed to mull over a missing word. You’re supposed to try two or three options, and argue with yourself a little bit before you land on one permanently. I didn't do any of that. None. The word would just show up, like it had been sitting there the whole time waiting for me to realize it was there.
I told myself it was instinct. But really I thought to myself that twenty-five years of reading old handwriting does that to you. I knew I could start hearing the voice before I finished reading the sentence.
I don't fully believe that anymore. Not fully anyway.
I've read these letters so many times now that I honestly can't always tell which words are Thomas's and which are mine. I know I filled in the gaps. I know some of what follows is me… my words… but what I don't know, and cannot trust myself to know, just exactly how much. I did nothing wrong. I did what anyone would do! You would do it too!
I thought about marking the additions. Like brackets for my guesses… or notes on the stains… but I removed the stains by typing the old letters into a look that would fit the time period. A typewriter font. I kept his doodles though. I redrew them so that they were legible. In the margins just as he intended.
I tried, actually, honestly… more than once… But every time I sat down to separate his words from mine, I realized I was just choosing again, just like… just the same as the first time. And now I know picking the same answer twice doesn't make it true.
So here it is. His words or mine.
– Justin Weinmann
Letter 1
June 3
Henry,
Well, the time has come, Uni is complete. We’ve done something to be so stupendously proud of… graduate. Something only all of us in class were able to achieve, and thousands more each year.
Still stupendous though. Our pride exudes us as we start our lives. And you my friend, my fine friend, have wasted no time in starting yours.
I intended to respond to your letter earlier, truly. Time has slipped rather quickly since that fine spring afternoon where we last walked together across a stage.
Your letter has brought me great joy in hearing the happiness in your tone as you write to me that you married Eleanor. You old dog. However she manages to tame you is beyond me. My imagination knows its limits, but I am certain the two of you will set out to make a fine family.
I truly apologize, sincerely, for missing the wedding. A best man in every sense I would have been at your side. There would be no better. However, with my father’s passing suddenly the day after graduation I had to set off immediately because the responsibility of his affairs falls on me. I am learning who I am. At least you know who you are.
I currently sit at his desk writing away. His study remains the same, untouched, as far as I know. We were never close. My own mother barely knew the man so he wasn’t much present in my life. But here I am now getting to know a man as closely as you can, by traversing his items after his passing and judging him for the things he deemed necessary to keep. And keep he did, a life thoroughly lived.
As I sit at his desk and write this, the dusty nature of this room intrigues me. What happened to this old man? His estate is larger than I anticipated. Going through it all will take a measure of time that I’m not sure I will have.
The notebook on his desk intrigues me. He has many drawings of several monsters. All better looking than you. That’s not hard to imagine…
I think of you often and look forward to our continued correspondence and whatever adventures our lives reward us with. I’ll send this letter off just as soon as I manage to clean this study and make my way to town.
Sincerely,
Thomas
Letter 2 — The notebook
Sept 13
Henry,
Thank you for your letter. I’m excited to hear that you and Eleanor are expecting a bundle of joy. That life of yours is sure to be lived. I’m so happy for you both. I will surely be there when it arrives.
I swore I sent the last letter. I thought I had. Forgive me for letting you believe that I was aloof. My father’s estate has run longer than its course and I doubt if I’ll ever finish it. Strangely all the work it requires of me I do not find unappealing. I like digging through it all. The mundane and intriguing.
I have had considerable time with his possessions. Interesting items, but one in particular has captivated me so. He has this notebook that is filled with the most interesting drawings and notes. I’m not sure what he intended it to be, but the pages are filled with what looks like an attempt to categorize these creatures.
I find myself repeatedly returning to these pages. The artistry in them. The rough lines. My father was artistic. I never knew that about him. But what could I really know about a man I barely remember? We were as thick as thieves, clearly.
As an artist, it is the type of thing you would have definitely enjoyed. The attention to detail. The craft. All of it. Wonderful. I would like to show it to you when I come to visit that sweet baby of yours.
Sincerely,
Thomas
Letter 3 — the tide.
February 8
Dear Henry,
Thank you for your Christmas letter. Do you remember that Christmas party when you spilled your drink all over Eleanor. What a meet cute? I laughed so hard at your misfortune that for the first time after pining over her for months, the first thing you said to her was “Oops,” while you ravaged her gown in cheap Brandy. Classic Henry.
I find myself observing the splintered edge of my father desk as I draw my fingers along its texture. I find myself here often. I spend more time here than I probably should, but the books about his study draw me in. They are stacked to the ceiling, about the floor, and some do not even find a single stack to call home. They lay at rest scattered about in the last location he must have read them. It resembles a library in disarray.
As I’ve wandered about this room over the last few months I have often thought the mind is a lot like it. A place with shelves, and volumes, and books, and letters, all with a place filed away; some easy to find, others misplaced or abandoned, but all within reach of a weary arm.
And even though that thought bounces around I don’t know if it ever really lands.
I just don't know if my thoughts stay in place after they are set. Some bounce back without being invited, acting like little wanderers, while others appear again and again on their own volition. As if they have a map. Others, sadly, drift beyond my reach, further and further away only to return to the surface much later, often when I never would expect. And some never leave, never disappear, they just migrate far beyond a place I am able to reach.
Less of a library and more of a tide. Things come and go, others wash ashore again and again, some recede only to return, and the depths claim all the rest, never to be seen again.
I find myself thinking on this endeavor regularly now.
Still, I love to hear from you. Your letters are welcome invitations in the dead hours of night, as I get a glimpse into our friendship as if it were only yesterday, the one certainty that always brings me comfort.
Sincerely,
Thomas
Letter 4
June 15
Dear Henry,
A baby? You’re joshing me. Finally, my old boy, a father you are! I’m so excited for you both. Please tell me all you can about the antics you two will inevitably involve yourselves in. I’m sure there will be plenty.
Do you remember the time that we got ourselves locked out of the dormitory one night and we climbed the walls up the garden trellis to sneak in only to discover we were in the wrong building… the girls' dorm. Those are the antics I want to hear about. Oh, and how Theodore, old Teddy, drank so much Brandy that when we got to the fourth floor we had to abandon him there for all the girls to find the next day because the old fool went beyond his limit? Great antics.
Speaking to that limit… I think I have met mine with sifting about through all my father’s belongings. If I am not done soon literally then I will be soon figuratively. It is much to handle. I’ve grown tired and miss my friends.
I shall make a visit soon to see that beautiful baby of yours… Should I bring Teddy along? Of course not. I know. You’ve already one baby to care for.
Love,
Thomas
Letter 5
August 21
Henry,
Your last letter had my heart. I love how much love you have in your life. Please send me more photos of the babe. What plans do you have for holidays? I should like to come for a visit. I still owe you several visits but this is the one. I feel it.
That book of my father’s is such a draw. I review them daily and ponder about them mercilessly. Some of the drawings appear to be unfinished and I ask myself as to whether or not I should complete them. I set my pen to the paper upon occasion but I have yet to make a stroke. I feel I can’t. Literally. As if my ink cannot set to complete one.
You’ve always been such an artist. You would love this book. It’s mesmerizing. Captivating. It’s… it’s unique.
I’ve noticed a pattern strewn about them... they don't behave like animals at all. They behave like roles waiting to be filled…. and I find myself revisiting pages as if it were the first time I saw them because something new has been seen each time.. New words. New sketches. New textures.
Until we see each other soon,
Thomas
Letter 6
September 3,
Henry,
I promise to write more. I promise to visit soon. I need it, old fellow. I surely do. I can feel it in my achy bones. In my achy mind. I need a rest. No, I need revelry. I surely need something.
I’m seeing what’s on the page out and about and in the world about me. Names.. Names. All the name. The creatures, our friends. Yours. They all come to me day in and day out and I’m the closest of friends with them all. I see them daily but truly see them never. I owe you more than this letter. And I owe them all too.
I sift through my memories in my armchair and I wear a smile like a linen draped over a dowel. It slides into place nicely but its balance is precariously placed.
The photos you sent over the summer connect me to all the warmth the world has to offer and hold that smile in place.
I shall finish this task soon… a visit I will.
Much love,
Thomas
Letter 7
October 21,
Henry,
There it goes again. Another letter from you mentioning that you wish I’d return your letters. I must have written to you a thousand times by now. And still have I yet to ship one away. Everything slips my mind now. Except for the things that don’t. The things that can’t. The things that return.
You return. You always do. But so do they. So does that book.
I put it down and pick up this paper and pen and write to you about it. I cannot escape it.
You continuously ask about my visit. I respond each time a planned visit that you never learned I planned, let alone accomplished. But the book knows my plans. It plans for me. For my eyes to find its way back. My eyes. Lapping on its shore asking for taste after taste.
You. Return.
-Thomas
Letter 8
November 1
Henry,
You would love this thing. The intricacies. The intimacies. All of it. The texture… the tooth of the paper.. The touch. The way it touches you. Coarse like stone.
Something about it grabs hold tightly and… and. Words cannot describe but little about a book of words. The wonders.
Tell me again Henry, what of those times we talked for hours and hours about nothing, and everything about our lives were empty but waiting to be filled. The filling has arrived. Oh, Henry. I understand you now.
The words I look for find themselves in the wrong place. Like you and I. Rearranged in life. I should be with you as your children run about, but I'm absent there while you’re fully present. And I’m present here while the words that were in this book find themselves absent… and or rearranged. You’re an anchor. And I’m adrift.
–Tom
Letter 9
December 12
Henry,
What is the Maschenkel?
Is he recurring? Have you heard of it? My father mentioned him but a few times yet he is all through. Omnipresent. If it is a creature… no it is not one. It is something else. It..
It is the thing that comes for you. Not it finds you. Or maybe its not looking for you at all. It’s already found you. I’ve read this page hours upon hours and every time I do I find something new. It prevents me from…. Stops me from… It finishes my…
I feel as if I stumbled upon something. Something I cannot stop consuming, discovering, recovering. If I set it aside it comes back. Back from the deep. There’s something that echoes louder with each pass, in direct opposition to an echo that should fade. It pounds. And it calls for me.
An interest in the book any would have. You especially.
-Thomas
Letter 10
December 25
Henry,
It is Christmas. You surely are having a great one. For me? Today I set to firmly test what I’ve thought.
A study. A proper scientific methodology. A discipline.
Surely the creatures must be around this old house still. I could observe them myself. I could compare my father’s notes with my own. I could complete this book. I could do what he couldn’t, or wouldn’t, or discover what it is that stopped him from doing so.
The observer in him surely resides within me as well. Kindred spirits between a man I hardly knew and a boy… maybe simply blood.
I set out to draw in the grasses near the stream as boy. Perhaps I saw them as well.
But as I read. I Question. I ponder. Are they even creatures? Or are they something else. I think my father ill? Of course not.
Tom
Letter 11
January 7
Henry,
It all revealed itself unto me. As I participate in trying to understand it participates in understanding something more about me. As I try to finish it finishes for me. As I rearrange my thoughts it rearranges its words. I think you would understand this better than I.
There is no completing this. There is no completion. I conclude I will never understand my father. Or maybe I already do.
You can never be finished with something that never ends. And with one ending it finds another beginning. You cannot begin to understand this, you can only pretend you do by labeling it words limited to a book that contains only the words it has within it. A limitation. A limit. Everything has them, except the ideas within this… this thing… this book.
It consumes me. It consumes me as I consume it. The great consummation.
The end?
Tom
Letter 12
January 22
Henry,
In this letter I write to you a message that I know I can never send. I must not send. In fact I now recall I never do send. A blessing. For sure.
If I send this letter to you…
You're my dearest friend. The closest that I have. Oh how close we’ve been lately. My confiding in you is the thing that has kept me going. Kept me engaged with the thing that I must protect you from now. Oh, our friendship.
I cannot do this to you. Henry.
It keeps me up at night. I cannot recall the last time my dreams have been about a thing other than this. I can’t remember the whimsy they brought me and the respite I so desperately need… for they never have time to arrive If I never lie down for a slumber.
It keeps me up during the day. The sun brings the shadow of the big tree directly in my house that casts across the desk through the window and lays upon the book directly each morning about the time I rise from the chair in the corner… with a brandy glass in my hand… dried and crusted from the evaporated elixir.
That shadow tells me of the darkness within. A darkness that calls me. One that infects my desire. A darkness that I cannot distinguish from myself. I must reach beyond what I can and complete this task.
Finish.
Tom
Letter 13
Feb 1
Henry,
I have a drawer. In this desk that I reside. I live here now. In that drawer I have placed letter after letter addressed to you.
I’ve folded them neatly. Over and over to the point that each fold has become almost transparent as the threads of the pulp separate from each other and the letter barely hangs on. Just like me. Hanging on.
In another drawer I have each letter from you in our correspondence… My soliloquy… my diatribe?
In that drawer the papers are folded nicely. Neat. meticulous. Still in their envelopes. A nice fold still holding tight and looking pristine. There’s few letters in that drawer. And a single photo.
You’re my closest friend.
I cannot do this to you. I will not. You know who you are.
Tom
Letter 14
Feb 3
Henry,
I shouldn’t write this. I know I shouldn’t. But my drawer needs more attention. More trinkets for my menagerie. I jest.
This is the only thing I could ever complete.
An incomplete letter to add to an incomplete drawer that is filled with all my incomplete thoughts under a desktop with a splayed open unfinished book calling for me to finish.
I cannot even finish this letter.
Letter 15
Feb 4
Henry,
You were always the sensible one between us and our friends. Thats why I now know what I think I always have.
This is the letter that I must send. I’ll be honest I have not sent any of the letters I have written you. Maybe something encouraged me not to. Maybe it was me. But I convinced myself in the time since that You would have laughed me off if I had sent them in due course. I can see yourself pouring yourself a glass of brandy and laughing at my letters. Oh because how ridiculous they must sound. A joke.
But this is no jest of any sort. I chose again and again to not message you… for whichever reason you think the best. It does not matter. I’ve buried myself in what I called work. In what worked on me. In something that took me from you and you from me.
Perhaps any letter I sent would have been enough. You would have understood. But it's too late for that now. This is the letter for you.
But it cannot be. To bring it into your life would… Could you… could you do it? Could you finish it?
Tom
Letter 16
Feb 5
Henry,
I have resolved to not write to you again. They never find you anyway. But I know I must not regardless of whether I should like to or not.
Of course I shall never drop a letter for you into the post. I must protect you… from it… from myself.
These drawers shall remain a catacomb of this endeavor of which you will never know. A completion of nothing and everything all at once.
I shall write no more
Letter 17 — Henry’s Response
Dear Thomas,
Your letter arrived this morning, and I must admit I was quite surprised to see your word after so long. It has been quite some time since our university days, and I found myself wondering what finally prompted you to write.
I will confess, your warning caught me somewhat off guard.
You write as though something has taken a particular interest in you…and now, by extension, in me as well. I cannot say I understand it, though I suspect I am not meant to, at least not in the way you have described. Your sense of humor at times… quite an oddity.
I have poured myself a glass of brandy while writing this and cannot help but smile at the thought of you, after all this time, still chasing after strange ideas.
Some things do not change.
It has been too long, Thomas.
I should very much like to see what has become of my old friend.
Before that, however, I simply cannot put your jest aside.
What is the Maschenkel?