The Correspondent
I imagine myself at the church in the small town surrounded by people speaking a language I do not know and himself in the casket there with the lid folded open.
It was a quarter century ago the last time I saw him.
I think that’s right, give or take. I can see him the day he left.
I can see him walking into the tunnel at the airport beside Fiona.
He had blond hair and he wore it rather long then.
He had stayed very slim and I can see him walking down the tunnel beside Fiona wearing his denim and the leather loafers he loved.
He was wearing a wool blazer and he had his traveling bag.
I remember Fiona looked back at me over her shoulder.
She gave me a little wave, nothing dramatic, she would be coming back in the summer.
Here is a small detail I remember—I could see, as she turned her face back in the direction they were walking, that she was saying something to him, I could see her mouth moving, but of course they were too far away for me to know what she was saying.
I hoped very much she was saying something about me, how I was standing there or some little thing, and I hoped, I really hoped, he said something back.
I wanted him to look back the way Fiona had, but he didn’t, and I guess probably up until that point it hadn’t been true to me yet.
I hadn’t really believed it was happening, but then he was gone without looking back and a shock wave hit me deep down in my bone marrow.
It felt like my body was vibrating, the way the air trembles after a gong is struck.
Why was I saying this?
Yes. I’m not sure if I can stomach that image I have of him leaving that last day in all of his professorial stature being replaced by the shriveled, disease-ravaged corpse of an old man.
I think that’s the roundabout train of my thoughts.
I’m terrified. However, one must attend the funeral.
There is nothing I can think of more important than the prioritization of attendance to a funeral.
Someone is stalking me. After Judge Donnelly died, this individual contacted me with a letter, a rather crass and vengeful kind of letter, which was disturbing.
I had not received anything of the sort in a long time, though it did remind me of when we were in the courthouse years, how Guy and I (and others) would receive those kinds of nasty missives from time to time, people disgruntled and hateful about the way a ruling had gone, and back then I did not have my address listed in the public record for that very reason.
The subsequent note that arrived, though uncomfortable, did not make me afraid and I tried to put it out of my mind.
However, after some time, I guess maybe another year went by and I received the third communication from this individual, but it was evident he or she had visited my house.
I know it’s true because in the letter, she or he (seems like a man) described my garden and my unique mailbox.
You might wonder if I have any idea who this person is.
I do not. They have signed their communications with two initials, and that is all.
This individual threatened to pay additional visits to my house.
I get the sense that the purpose of this is rather to make me feel afraid, and not likely to actually harm me in any way, and it’s working.
When I read it I felt frightened, really frightened, Colt.
I can’t think of the last time I had felt that way.
I hate to feel afraid. I can think of nothing worse, so I imagine this person watching me as I go slowly blind.
I imagine this, and when blind, how I won’t even know, and I’m sure anyone would advise me to call the police, but I won’t do that.
What would they do other than send a patrol car over every so often?
If I told Bruce and Fiona, they’d only fret or make me move (they’re already trying to get me to go to an old people’s home) and I have no interest in anything of that sort.
I have considered alerting my neighbor, Theodore Lübeck.
I did have a security system installed with a camera, but I’m confused about how it works, so I rarely turn it on.
Enough now. I’ll let you know how things go regarding the funeral.