Chapter 3
CHAPTER 3
ELLIS
It takes four days for her reply. Four days in which I barely sleep and struggle to eat and throw myself into work like a madman. I’m convinced I’ve done the wrong thing and am about to call Wren and fess up when the hotel room phone rings, and the front desk lets me know that I’ve got a package.
I catch sight of my reflection on the way out of my room and grimace. I’m filthy, the lines marring my face and hands caked in dirt and soot. The winds have picked up, spreading the fire with it, and we’re scrambling to get on top of the thing. Probably why Lennon’s cousin hasn’t been able to get us any more information on the missing horses, too.
Anticipation bounces violently in my stomach when I spot a pink box on the back counter downstairs, and I shift restlessly in line behind a group checking in until I finally get it. I don’t have the patience to take it back up to my room once it’s finally in my hands, and I carry it over to a table in the lobby instead.
My grimy fingers tear into the box, and my brain stutters over what to grab first—the letter inside or the black forest whoopie pies that I recognize.
“Did you just moan , Cap?” comes Lennon’s voice from over my shoulder. Fuck. “It was somehow both a moan and a growl,” she adds, chuckling. I see her hover in the corner of my eye now. “You sure you don’t need to open that in private?”
“If you shut up, I’ll give you one,” I say with a pointed glare.
She mimes zipping her lips together, and I hand her one of the little cookie sandwiches. She primly takes it and a seat across from me, and I open the envelope, ignoring her groaned (and predictable) “’Oly fuck” when she takes a bite. I already know they’re holy fucking good.
Dear (brazen) Stranger, the letter begins.
What a ride your letter put me on. Here I started out thinking, “Wow, what a polite guy,” (assuming you’re a guy since you didn’t respond to my comment regarding you being a woman), but then you hit me with that shocking little blackmail twist at the end, and it really confirmed it. Now you’ve dangled more hope in front of me while also fishing for more treats. What’s to stop this from becoming a toxic cycle now?! What if I’m some sweet grandmother wringing her hands day and night and toiling away over baked goods? You feel good about taking advantage of me? :)
Something about that smiley face makes me laugh-hum, but then I remember that Lennon is watching me. I school my features into something passive.
In all seriousness, I am very happy that you’re able to find those small miracles. I know too many horror stories from living out here on the West Coast all my life. I’ve seen and heard how fire decimates everything in its path. Frankly, I’ve burned myself too many times on hot things to ever imagine that sort of death. The raw sting of a good burn is enough to give me chills.
A hiccupping feeling contracts in my throat. I know how much she hates getting burned. Tough as nails when it comes to physical pain, she always had a special sort of weak spot for the burns she’d endure in the bakery. I used to buy her every kind of oven mitt whenever I saw one I thought she’d like. Used to know every scar that marred her pretty hands and wrists, too.
I’ve also seen how the devastation can haunt you all , though. I’ve known a number of first responders in my life. So as long as you keep looking for those small mercies, I will do my best to continue to hold out hope for the horses. (I’ll also hope that it won’t cost me a three-tiered cake or a baked Alaska or something, though. I simply don’t know how I’d transport it to you safely.)
Thank you in advance for any info you find. In the meantime, I’ll still be trolling the local Facebook groups. You’ll be delighted to hear that it seems as if the turbo-turder has found greener lawns to crap on! No reports for the last week!
Still Sincerely Hopeful,
Salem Meridian
I let out a small sigh when I reach the end of the letter. It’s too nice getting to hear— read —her this way again. Her playfulness and that wry, candid wit. It’s so far from the clipped politeness we’ve maintained since we split. It doesn’t help that I can still picture the way she’d say all of it, the way her eyes would pinch sympathetically when she knew I’d seen something awful even though I didn’t want to share, or when I inevitably couldn’t hide my exhaustion.
“You hear anything from your cousin, Kirby?” I ask, eyes still tracing the paper, all the shapes and curves of the words. I look up at the same time she lets out a small snore, the half-eaten treat still on her lap. Christ, the poor kid. She’s maybe ten years younger than I am, but I can’t remember a time when I didn’t feel downright elderly compared to most of my coworkers and crew. By the end of this fire, after she’s inevitably seen family homes destroyed and history lost and an unfathomable amount of ruin, she’ll feel older, too. Thinking about it sends a pang through my chest.
Maybe this is why, after I jostle her awake and take myself back to my room, I decide to write Wren again. I’d told myself I wouldn’t until I knew about the horses, but… but maybe I want to reach for that lightness. Staying anchored to something good is good, right? I might just be too tired to think on it too long.
Dear Stranger,
I won’t pretend it’s easy to find the miracles. Sometimes I have to look really, really hard. Sometimes I get sick of looking for them. Do you ever feel that way? Like you resent that you even have to look so hard for all the good things? Sorry if I’m not making sense. Today was a long, heavy day, and I’m so, so tired. It sounds like the official word is that this was started by arson. It’s hard to see an elementary school reduced to ash and not be angry at how pointlessly cruel humanity can be. A whole town was wiped away, and for what?
Getting a letter from you was the bright spot in my day, Stranger. Hey—guess that’s my small mercy, maybe? I was lucky enough to get your package out of everyone the first time, and now look at us. We’ve got our own little crime ring complete with blackmail, espionage, and of course, most egregiously of all, your fraudulent membership in the online community of local suburbia.
I promise you, treats or not, I’ve got feelers out to everyone all across this fire for them to let me know about the horses if they hear or come across anything. I still promise to share either way, good or bad.
I wanted to ask, though… I was hoping that you might be open to writing to me again while we’re still searching? At over 200k acres and hardly contained, I think I’ll be here for at least another couple of weeks. But… there’s something nice about this. No agenda, just dear strangers finding a little comfort. I promise I’m only perverted when explicitly asked to be.
I understand if you don’t have time. Life is busy and days rarely feel long enough anymore. My sister—
I have to go back and erase the part about Sage. I was planning to talk about her ability to live in the present and how it makes her one of the most accomplished people I’ve ever met. I feel a swift pinch of guilt when I erase it. I don’t want to be deceitful, precisely, but I want to preserve this tenuous thing, whatever it is.
I wrap up the letter with:
Also Hopeful,
-L
Dear L,
I guess this will be our trial run to see what you’re really about, since this letter comes unaccompanied by treats. But I’ll admit that I was also hoping you might want to keep writing. I think this is nice, too. No agenda, I agree. Bold move with that remark about being perverted, though! For all you know, I am that ninety-three-year-old granny who’s hard up and swooning over her fireman calendar each time I write one of these. Maybe I couldn’t figure out Tinder and I’m working up to asking you for a hand-drawn dick pic?! What are you going to do if I call your bluff?!
Wow, I’m actually laughing out loud. It’s a bit strange how easy it is to make these jokes and remarks here in the unknown. Should we establish some rules to keep it that way? No major details. No real names? (Oops, guess this is where I admit that mine’s been phony the whole time—you can still address it there to avoid confusion.)
We could talk about what’s going on around us. I’ll keep you posted on the latest gossip and unimportant news, and you can share whatever you’re feeling like getting off your chest, too?
Sincerely,
Nosferatu
Dear Heinous Gruffalo Woman,
I’d love nothing more than to hear about garage sale carnage or the bloodletting of the HOAs. I’m well versed in small-town “scandals,” so this will feel very home-adjacent to me, I’m sure. But I think we can talk about ourselves a bit, too, as long as we avoid identifiers?
I’d love to hear something (for lack of a better word) hopeful about you. Today felt like a hopeless sort of day—a sentence that I’ve erased twice now. I have a hard time sharing the shitty stuff, I realize. It’s like putting that on paper makes it aggressively clear. Today, we recovered a body, though. A man (because they almost always are) who was told to evacuate, and instead thought he could maintain his own fire line and keep this raging thing at bay. I don’t get why he’d be so fucking stubborn. Why wouldn’t he trust the experts? We were doing everything we could, and no, we still would not have saved his house, but dammit, he’d still have his life. I hate whatever circumstances made him think his home was worth risking his life.
I also hate that I saw myself in that idiot man, though. I keep thinking of how I’ve done that in my own life. How I’ve taken on things I had no business taking on, neglected to accept help, and what I’ve lost because of it.
I don’t normally look forward to the breaks during these big fires. It feels like I’m always anxious to get back, as if one dumb man is going to be the difference in containing it. I’m looking forward to going home for a week, for once.
Anyway, tell me something hopeful about you? Even if it seems corny. I’d love to know your hopes and dreams.
I did hear about the horses, but I’m sorry to report that it’s not definitive news. Only that they have not been found at all.
—L
Dear L,
One dumb man can do a lot. I think if one dumb man can start the thing, one certainly can make a difference in stopping it. I know you hardly know me (other than the fact that I am utterly grotesque!!!), but I also happen to be an excellent judge of character. Based on our exchanges here, I bet yours is strong. It takes so much strength and bravery to examine and be honest about where we’re messiest, AND to open up again. I’ve fucked up in my life too many times, but I’ll be truthful with you since it’s just us here… I think I’ve only learned to barricade my heart. Like maybe that’ll protect other people from my broken bits. Does that make sense? It’s hard to stay too vague in this, but just know that the people I’ve hurt the most and let down the most are the ones I love the most, too. The bravest thing I ever did was leave something that was fine, but not making either of us happy anymore. Sometimes I think I regret it even still, but… there are different kinds of hurt. There’s the kind you inflict sharply and quickly—like emotional blunt force trauma—and then there’s the other kind, like a slow-building poison in your veins. I think it starts with withholding love, but maybe it starts with withholding hurt, too.
God, I’ve turned this into more of a diary entry for myself, haven’t I? My best friend is an avid journaler and is always talking about how writing stuff down helps her reveal and understand things. How she manages to surprise herself. Guess she’s onto something.
I hope the jalapeno and cheddar biscuits make amends, but I’ve also got some juicy news to offer. In my tiny town, two of its most prominent characters have fallen in LOVE! I think they may have even been living a secret love story for years, though from the outside looking in, no one would’ve known. It’s your standard fare; she owns the trading goods store, he owns the diner. She nagged him, he needled her, she accidentally (allegedly) hit him with her car and professed her undying love on their way to the ER. Rumor is, my brother caught them doing something unsavory in one of the fitting rooms yesterday!
As far as hopes and dreams go… I’m a little stumped here. I haven’t been asked this sort of question in so long. I have my dream career, honestly. I love what I do, and I love where I live. I have the world’s coolest kid. I don’t care if you have five incredible children, mine’s better than yours. Sorry:|
I’d love to travel. I’d love to see new places, knowing I have my home to come back to. I want to drink wine on an Italian villa and dance in an Irish pub. I live near a coast, but it’s cold and craggy all the time. I’ve never been to a warm, golden-sand beach. I’ve never been anywhere, really.
There are days that I think I would like to love someone again. But honestly? I’m not too sure about that. I don’t know if we need romantic love to be happy in life, and I worry that my perspective would always be a little bit skewed when it comes to that anyway. I grew up with my great love, so I think maybe my heart took shape around his.
My dad left when I was too young to know the difference, and my mom hasn’t wanted for a full life. She’s fiercely independent, tries whatever hobbies she feels like, whenever she feels like. She has great friendships and plenty of love to give to her community and whoever she wishes to give it to. I’ve seen other people lose that romantic, soul-rending sort of love, whether through death or betrayal or… whatever life dealt them that made it impossible to keep the thing. It was like watching someone try to function with half a heart when it was taken away. I genuinely don’t know if I want to risk that again—having to survive something like that.
Even the most consuming love doesn’t necessarily mean happiness in the end. I can attest to that. I can look back on everything now and see the beauty in my own personal history and the good things it gave us, and yet I can’t quite pinpoint where it ultimately died, you know? And sorry if this is TMI, but again, safe space and all that—I think even sex was ruined by the end. It was great, don’t get me wrong, but it also felt like a crutch for connecting when we weren’t otherwise.
I also think that maybe the pain and the mystery of that is best left in the past, at least for me. Do you think that makes me a coward? Maybe I’m just a cynic. Maybe I still think holding on to hope is dangerous.
How about you? What are your hopes and dreams?
Sincerely,
Gollum