Fifteen Years of Letters

Such is the persistence of pen pals, Eliza had written Jonathon every day for 15 years, and every day, he had written back, barring some obstructions that had crossed their path, the broken-down car, the hospitalization, the week that her mother had died. It had become part of a ritual so deeply embedded in her day that no day seemed quite complete without sending one missive across the water, knowing that its echo would return to her later in the day.

Eliza stared out across the garden, walled in by roses of Sharon and raspberry bushes. Deep in the jungle of flowers, there were also blueberry bushes, thornless raspberries, elderberries and apple trees. This was a small refuge from the hectic pace of the city, the cars, the commuters, the crowds. She had always thought that introverted people should live in rural areas and leave the city to the extroverts who thrived on chic cafes and dog parks. But alas, even introverts have to work and make money...

She flipped open her laptop. This was one of the rare times that he was online. She opened a message window.

"Where are you now?" she wrote.

"I'm in Sardinia," he wrote back. "It's beautiful here. I am taking pictures of small churches." He added a picture of a stone chapel looking out onto a cobbled square.

Jonathon fancied himself a photographer. but really, he was a retiree with too much time on his hands. She often called him Jonathon Seagull since it was impossible for him to keep still. He was always flitting from place to place.

"Where are you staying?" Eliza asked. Sometimes, she felt more like a mother than a pen pal. All his stuff from his last move was in her garage or attic, awaiting the moment when he found the right little villa. In between, he had done everything from camping in rental cars, erecting a tent on the beach, or sleeping in the airport.

For all that he claimed to distrust humanity, he had more trust than she had. Eliza guessed it was that she was a woman. Women were trained from youth to watch for people following them, to avoid lonely, dark alleys and to not meet a man's gaze for too long. Even at 50, when she had moved into that shadow of the moon phase in her life when she was all but invisible, she doubted she had the faith to take off on her own and search for her soul in the form of some elusive villa in the Italian countryside.

There was a long pause on his end, which never boded well.

"I'm here and there. I have a hotel room for the night."

"May I say that I worry about you?" she countered.

"Well, you can say it," Jonathon countered.

"But you don't have to listen," Eliza finished. It was the beginning and ending of every argument they had ever had. It was as old and tired as a handshake, and as reassuring as an embrace.

"What are you doing now?" he asked. "It's four in the afternoon here. It must be ten in the morning in New York."

"I'm having my tea, and then, I am going out to weed the garden. There may be some late strawberries. I'm reading a lot these days. I do wonder if the nature of humanity is to strive for the things we don't have, and neglect those things we do." It was a pointed comment in his direction, but he deflected it.

"Listen, I don't have a lot of time at this internet cafe. I'm taking a ferry back to the mainland. If you don't hear from me for a week, remember to call my lawyer, Alex. Also, you have the keys to my trunk in the garage."

"Oh, please, don't talk like that," Eliza complained as she stirred cream and honey into her Earl Grey tea. She was a creature of habit. Her tea had to be precisely a certain sweetness and the perfect temperature, or she couldn't make herself drink it. "Buy a villa, and come back and get your stuff. Also, find a wife. You need someone to look after you."

"Yeah, yeah," Jonathon replied. He never gave an credence to these discussions. They had long since determined that they were not right for each other. He was too spur-of-the-moment and seize-the-day. She was too frumpy and a creature of certain habits, but they could talk for hours about books. "I'll write you a letter while I am on the ferry. I'll be sleeping out under the stars tonight on the Mediterranean."

"Remember to dress warmly," Eliza chided. She knew she was the old nag that he couldn't live with and couldn't live without.

"Gotta go," he replied.

She sipped her tea. It was almost the right temperature. She usually didn't appreciate anyone breaking up her routine, but she was glad that she had had this exchange. Now, she was free to worry about him for another day and a half until he was settled in another port. She opened up her email and began crafting another letter, her musings on politics, the environment, the economy, etc. He would read these thoughts later and disagree vociferously, but this is what kept their relationship fresh.

After tea and toast, she yanked on her gardening boots and her gardening gloves to face the tumult of weeds. The garden was carefully crafted to look as if it were a natural phenomenon, but in truth, you'd never find an apple tree surrounded by different berry bushes and a small stone path that wound around like a mandala. She often thought that this was the nature of healing oneself. You step onto the mandala and walk in a circle. It's the same mandala, but a different experience because each time, you are illumined by a different wisdom, whether it's denial, grief, anger or acceptance. It was why she could be in the same place year after year and never become bored. Her inner world was larger than her outer world.

Dinner came and went. She read until her eyes became heavy, and then, she packed herself off to bed.

The following morning, she woke up, put the tea kettle on, as she always did. She collected the packages at the front door and watered her plants, set out food for the cat, and returned to her laptop to find that there was no letter yet. While this was deeply unsettling, she realized he was probably still outside of a signal.

This day was gloomy. Rain spattered the windows. Her plants seemed to dance in the wind. Sometimes, she would like to join them, but she contented herself with living vicariously. Evening rolled around, and she found herself checking her email hourly to see if he had arrived in port.

No email.

She made herself a plain chicken breast and a salad. She liked the spice of radish sprouts on her salad with just the right amount of balsamic vinegar to olive oil. Jonathon used to complain that he could never take her to dinner anywhere because she was too peculiar. Eliza flopped down in the reading chair to page through her favorite old copy of George Mac Donald's fairy tales. The book was worn and the pages were dog-eared. After that, she made herself cocoa and went to bed.

By the second day without a message, Eliza was frantic and held off calling Alex for most of the day, giving in only at dinnertime when it was verging on 60 hours without a word.

"I know you're going to tell me that this is how Jonathon is," Eliza began preemptively. "But he promised to message as soon as he arrived in port. And it's been way past that now."

Alex sighed. He had a dark, gruff voice that spoke to confidence in the court room. "He's lucky to have you worrying about him, but he doesn't make it easy, does he? Give him another day or two."

"And if he doesn't reply," Eliza prompted.

"Well, you know what to do," Alex replied and got off the phone.

Eliza fingered the keys in her hand. She was usually such a reserved person who valued her own privacy, so it was difficult to invade anyone else's. And she felt sure he would reply. She had left so many red herrings in her last letter that he would have no choice but to fight with the valor of a knight fighting for truth and godliness. He would never leave those challenges unanswered unless something had happened to him. She sat on the garage steps and stared at the big, oak trunk. Finally, she pulled herself to her feet.

The key turned with a wheeze, and she was left staring at all Jonathon's personal items: a compass, a watch, a little black book, t-shirts, books all packed in a hodge-podge as if they had been passing thoughts that had landed here as he practiced free association. The trunk even retained something of his smell. It smelled like Old Spice, sweat and vanilla cookies. She opened the black book and began reading.

After a while, her knees became so stiff from kneeling on the concrete floor in the garage that she was forced to close up the trunk and bring the little black journal into the house where she could continue this pursuit in her reading chair. It was the story of the day he met her in an old basilica, and all the days hence. She found herself alternately laughing out loud and ugly-crying as she paged through all the events of her life from his perspective.

At the end, she found a check and a mission.

"If anyone in the world knows where to find me, it will be you. Face your fears. Get on that plane. This check will probably be past its date when you find this--hopefully. Just call Alex to issue a new one. If I am dead, you should know I have left everything to you. If I am alive and just being silent, then I will be happy to hear your voice. Find me."

Eliza took several deep, steadying breaths before she got up from her reading chair. She didn't even know if she owned a suitcase, but she supposed she would have to find one.