Too Late
A package was waiting for Watt when he returned to his apartment.
Watt did not receive much in the way of packages at his residence.
Letters and such of the like, yes. But never packages.
He did all of his own shopping right in the city, having never felt the need to order from any kind of catalog.
The package had no return address, and the relatively small box was light enough to hold in one hand.
The concierge said it’d been delivered by a non-descript messenger with instructions to directly hand it off to Watt.
After securely locking himself in his apartment, shucking his frozen outwear, and greeting Maggie, he set the box down on his bed.
He sat down on the mattress, and stared at it.
Maggie stared at it too, her ears perked.
Surely a mysterious package with such an ominous arrival shouldn’t be opened. Right?
He opened the package.
Meticulously.
He unfolded the cardboard flaps one at a time, chiding himself all the while for treating a simple box like a bomb. The scent of paper and old smoke wafted out of the box, and the hairs on Watt’s arms stood on end. He peered into the depths of the box, and found a stack of papers.
Curiosity outweighed everything else and Watt reached inside the box, gingerly bringing the loosely arranged papers into the light.
He shifted, unsure what he was looking at.
Two sheets of paper. Folded in three places, like they’d been tucked into an envelope, but if there had been one it was missing.
Scorch marks had eaten away most of the pages, leaving what remained a hardly legible smudge of French and ash.
Watt spoke French better than he could read it, having been introduced to the language by Cornelius, then reacquainted with it during war time. But on the first page, clear as day, was his name. Not Walter, but Watt.
He painstakingly put as many words as he could together, and what was revealed broke his heart in two.
My Dearest Watt,
August 30th, 1914
I hope this letter finds you well, there has been no news of your death in the papers so I have to assume that you’ve beaten the measles, not that I ever doubted you.
I write this apology in French so its contents will be kept secret, at least from your family.
My last letter to you went unanswered, but I cannot be sure you ever received it, so I write to you again in hopes that you do not think less of me, and under a name no one but you and my family knows.
I am not sorry for speaking my truth, for you will always have it from me.
I am sorry for the pain it has caused you.
I should have waited, should have told you in the privacy of our place.
But I thought you … I thought it was the only chance I had, and how was I to know your father was there, listening on the other side of the door?
I knew he was an unkind man, but I never expected him to discard me so easily, and without thinking my father wouldn’t retaliate for my broken heart and broken bones.
I do not blame you for what your father has done to Papa’s employment prospects, as I hope you do not blame him for breaking your Father’s nose.
If you cannot bear to be friends with me any longer, I cannot say that I understand because I promised not to lie to you.
But I will accept it, as long as you tell me so yourself.
Your father says you want nothing to do with me, but I cannot believe it.
I cannot believe that you would throw away everything we had because I have grown into a man.
I always thought a part of you knew and loved me for it anyway, but maybe I am wrong.
But if you do wish to stay friends, know that you have a lifelong one in me, no matter the distance. I look forward to hearing from you, whether your words are full of goodbye or hello, I will be waiting for them.
Yours,
Cornelius Tremblay
Watt,
January 18, 1915
I told myself that I would not write another letter and that I would take your silence as an answer, or at the very least an ill omen. But even after all this time I find it impossible to move on, and I do not know why.
We have spent far more time apart than we ever did together, and my life is approaching a direction that promises adventure and new friends. You were but a brief interruption in the grand scheme of my life.
But I find myself stuck on that beach, with the ghost of you beside me.
Am I really that reprehensible? Is my existence that difficult to fathom?
Or did I ever matter that much to begin with?
I don’t know why I’m sending you this letter, other than the fact that I will be leaving Harbor Springs soon, and all of our memories behind.
I’ve decided to change my last name as a birthday gift to myself, and so you will no longer be able to find me as I am now.
Papa understands, and I do not think he hates me much for it, but Mama is not so easily swayed.
But it is a necessary action, to keep me and them safe.
I’ll be staying with family overseas, where I can grow into myself.
Not everyone is as understanding of my situation as I once hoped you were. I thought I’d have more anger or disappointment to put to words, but I fear once I start dressing you down I will not be able to stop. So I will say this.
I sincerely hope that you have a beautiful and wonderful life, Watt Johnson.
Goodbye.
C
Watt had never been in such a rage all of his life.
Was it any wonder that Cornelius never responded to Watt’s letters, when he was only returning the apparent silence he’d received from Watt?
Not that it was Watt’s fault these letters were stolen, and had never reached the intended recipient.
How could anyone fathom that their own family would interfere in such a violating and cruel manner?
Someone had clearly tried to destroy the letters.
And Cornelius' confession, and the resulting confrontation that took place during Watt’s gap of forgotten memories, for no one had told him.
Watt desperately tried to remember Cornelius at his bedside, admitting his innermost truth, but he could not.
Watt had been so sick that the entire time was nothing but slippery fog.
He felt monstrous for having lost such a sacred memory, and that his father had invaded it. Stole it and twisted it and hid it.
All this time, Cornelius thought Watt had known.
He thought Watt had known, and cut ties.
Would Cornelius believe him if he said he’d only just now come into possession of these letters, and that he had no memories of what happened before?
No, he didn’t think Cornelius would. It all seemed too convenient, and besides. It was too little, too late.
Watt’s hands flexed, tightening dangerously around the papers. He immediately stopped himself, staring down at the burned words. Who had saved the letters, and why?
If Father had read through these letters, he would’ve recognized the name at dinner and thrown a fit. Watt thought about his Mother, her inquisitive and knowing stare at dinner. But why only burn them partially and keep the remains?
Watt desperately tried to recall the first letter he sent to Cornelius, wondering how tone deaf it must’ve sounded.
How disrespectful. No wonder the man had been so hostile.
The once-upon-a friend who had shunned and abandoned him was now asking for his help, and not with something like furniture. It was a wonder he said yes at all.
Watt vowed to try and make things right, even if he had no clue how.
March 23rd, 1930
The first time Watt called Cornelius, he fully expected to be hung up on.
“This is Cornelius Sawyer.”
Watt breathed. He said, “Hello, Dr. Sawyer. This is Watt Johnson, I was wondering if you had a moment of time to spare.”
Cornelius did not respond for a long second. It had been two weeks since Cornelius agreed to participate in this trip, and Watt had restrained himself from calling half a dozen times already. He had questions, and eventually decided that it was completely normal of him to call and simply ask.
Watt was capable, he’d been in hostile environments before.
But this was different, and he wanted to prepare as best he could.
Most of his colleagues from before the war had been to Egypt like him, or in Europe.
Those he met after were much younger than him and had done very little fieldwork.
The perils of switching disciplines later in life, he supposed.
“I do.” Cornelius allowed, using that same polite and cold tone from their last meeting. “What do you need?”
Watt sorely wished he could say that he didn’t need anything, that he was calling just to say hello.
“I was curious if there was anything in particular I should obtain for this trip beforehand. There will be opportunity to resupply in S?o Paulo and Cuiabá, so what do I need from here? I was also thinking it might be useful if we compared and pooled our resources, so we each carry as little gear as possible. But if you are opposed to sharing, I understand.”
Cornelius huffed against the phone’s receiver, and the faint sound scratched at Watt’s eardrum. “You’re calling me for help with packing.”
“...Yes.”
“I see. Do you have a paper and pen, then? Or would you rather I sent you a list?”
Watt already had a pad of paper and pencil at the ready. “What is best for you?”
Cornelius proceeded to list his belongings in a roll call fashion that was nearly too fast to keep up with.
He explained what was best to buy there, and what would be hard to find.
They decided who would be responsible for what, and hashed out some other details like where they would meet in the city and when.
As more words passed between them, the tension in Watt's shoulders eased.
But soon there was nothing else left to say.
“Okay, thank you, I truly appreciate it,” Watt said.
Cornelius hummed. “Was there anything else?”
'I’m sorry I didn’t answer your letters. I didn’t have them. I didn’t know.'
“Ah, no. Thank you for your time.”
“And yours,” Cornelius said briskly, then hung up.
Watt returned the receiver to its place, then put his head in his hands. He could see the disaster blooming out of this mess from miles away, and yet was still running towards the fallout.