Chapter 25
He tosses the latest batch of letters onto his dining table, tells himself not to mess with them, then starts picking through them anyway. He needs a hit of something nice, something to lift him up after dealing with Charlie’s ugly silence and the paranoia that overtook him back in the parking lot.
He zeroes in on a promising-looking one.
The handwriting on the envelope, all elegant loops and curves, tells him it’s from a woman, one as sane and orderly as his own mother, whose handwriting resembled this.
The letter starts promisingly enough; Farrah from Minnesota calls Judith “a visionary who made [her] feel seen.” Fine, good.
But then she goes on to lament Judith’s death in a long, winding paragraph, and closes without mentioning Paul at all.
His absence is central, slighting—a replay of what happened in the classroom.
He crumples the letter and envelope viciously in one hand and drops them in the trash.
So long, Farrah from Minnesota.
One more, he tells himself. Catherine of Chicago is just as impassioned as Farrah was—or more—and while she does thank Paul briefly for his work, she spends several paragraphs detailing her responses to each of the twenty photographs from the feature.
She’s an amateur photographer herself, she notes, and discusses the originality of the angles, the perspectives, and the use of light—as if Paul needed a lesson in the merits of Judith’s work.
At the very end, she asks Paul if he would look at her photographs, which she will “happily send.” He laughs out loud.
It’s not the first of these solicitations he’s received, though it’s phrased more eloquently than most. He’s flattered and pleased by this sign of his new prominence, but not enough to do more than send Catherine’s letter floating to the floor.
He sighs and eyes the significant pile. One more?
Then he can give it a rest. He shuffles through and finds a neatly typewritten envelope addressed to “Mr. Paul Sorenson.” He likes the touch of respect.
Appreciates it. There’s no return address, which strikes him as a bit at odds with the rest of the envelope’s formality, but he tells himself it doesn’t matter.
This one will be good, it will give him what he wants. What he deserves.
Dear Mr. Sorenson,
I find it absolutely unbearable that a draft dodger like yourself would be the man to profit by Judith Stanley’s work.
I feel sorry for the woman herself and for her family, who may or may not know the truth about you.
If I had the power to expose you for what you are, I would.
Alas, I only have the power of sending these private words.
I admire Ms. Stanley’s photographs greatly and only wish they were in the hands of someone with a real sense of duty, honor, and integrity.
I’m certain you’ll go on profiting from her work in many ways, and I want you to know that if I could do anything to stop it, I would.
Sincerely,
David
A man who didn’t even have the “honor and integrity” to sign off with his last name, or include his return address, accusing Paul of being a draft dodger—when Paul was too old for the damn draft!
Paul snorts and rips the letter right in half.
Then he grabs up the whole pile and nearly strides into the kitchen to light it on fire in the sink but stops himself before getting there—it will make a mess, he’ll set off the fire alarm, it’s too cold to go out on his fire escape and do it in a metal trash can out there…
He throws the letters back on the hall table.
Some of them slide to the floor, and since Paul can’t stand disarray, he scoops them up and stacks them neatly, his stomach churning violently the whole time.
He wanted something, needed it, and didn’t get it.
But why was he looking for what he needed in the damn letters anyway?
Or from someone like Charlie? Or anyone?
It was just a craving he’d given in to—a craving for affirmation, a sense that he was good and what he’d done was right.
But no outside voice will give him that; he resolves not to read any more unless he wants pure entertainment and has absolutely nothing better to do.
He finds an empty cardboard box and dumps all the letters—even the opened, threatening ones—into it.
Neither threats nor compliments matter; he won’t let them distract him anymore.
He has a catalog introduction to write, and a job at Doven Gallery.
He will no longer let the insignificant insults of angry girls, women, or men have any impact on his upwardly mobile life. In the end, he’s still winning.