His expression is pained, which I take as a yes.
Either way, I think our business relationship has reached its conclusion. Maybe whoever I get to do the roof can recommend an electrician who’s sober. “Never mind. Thanks for coming out to check. What do I owe you?”
He stuffs the small power meter into the back pocket of his jeans, bends to pick up his toolbox from where he left it on the floor, then straightens and shakes his head. “Nothing.”
“No, that’s not right. You should be compensated for your time.”
His smile is lopsided. He flips his long hair over his shoulder. “I appreciate it, but it’s my policy that if I don’t find a problem, the visit is free.”
I have a sneaking suspicion he just made up that policy on the spot because he feels sorry for me. “Are you sure? I don’t want to take advantage.”
“Nah, we’re cool. But maybe if one of your friends needs a handyman…？”
“I’ll recommend you. You bet. Thanks, Eddie, I really appreciate it.”
He grins at me, flashing that crooked tooth. “I’m outta here, then. You take care now, okay? And call me if you want my doc’s name. He’s really the best.”
I force a smile and lie. “I will. Thanks again.”
“I’ll let myself out. See you around.”
He leaves. When I hear the front door open and close, I go after him to make sure it’s locked. Then I go into the kitchen for a glass of water, but stop short when I see the envelope sitting on the table.
Even from halfway across the room, I can see the LOVE stamp in the corner and the neat block printing in blue pen spelling out my name.
My breath catches in my throat. My heart starts pounding. My steady hands begin to tremble.
Then all the overhead lights in the kitchen ceiling grow brighter.
With a sharp buzz of noise, they flicker and go out.
3
Dear Kayla,
You didn’t respond to my last letter, which I understand, because you think we’ve never met. You’re wrong. I could bore you with the details, but for now just trust that I know you.
In every way one person can know another, I know you.
I know the sight, sound, taste, and smell of you.
I know your darkest darks and your lightest lights.
I know your dreams, your nightmares, and every secret you’ve ever kept hidden, all those nameless desires you never admitted even to yourself.
I know the shape of your soul.
I know your hands tremble as you read these words, and your heart beats as fast as a hummingbird’s wings. I know you want to tear this letter up, and I also know you won’t.
How I need to touch you. How I need to hear your voice. I can’t, of course, because I’m here and you’re there, but the distance doesn’t make the longing go away.
I can still taste your skin.
Dante
4
I stand next to the kitchen window with the letter in my hands and read it again in the gray afternoon light. Then again. Then once more, because it’s so bizarre, my brain refuses to come up with any plausible explanations for it.
Probably because there aren’t any.
The overhead lights flicker back on, illuminating the room.
Throwing my arms in the air, I say to the ceiling, “I wish you’d done that when Mr. Everything’s Great Eddie was here!”
Then I fold the letter, put it back into its envelope, set it on the table, and pour myself a glass of red wine. I gulp it down, deciding on impulse that I need to make sure the house is secure. I go from room to room, checking window latches and door locks until I’m satisfied that I’m locked in tight.
After that’s done, I sit down at the kitchen table and make a list. I always think best with a pen in my hand.
POSSIBLE EXPLANATIONS
Someone is fucking with you.
I immediately cross that out, because obviously someone is fucking with me. The question is why? And why now?
This Dante person saw the article in the newspaper about the accident
He smells money
He’s trying to pull a lonely-widow scam
As soon as I write that down, I think I’ve nailed it.
He’s in prison, after all. To get there, he had to do something bad. So the man has what could be politely called compromised morals. He probably trolls the obituary section of the newspapers and sends these letters out to new widows all over the place, hoping one of them will take the bait and write him back so he can strike up a relationship and seduce her into sending him large sums of cash.
But the letter is too weird to be scam bait. And too specific. He should’ve just said he was a lonely guy looking for a pen pal, not that he could still taste my skin.