MELODY IN THE WIND
The letter read something like this:
* * *
Dear Charlie,
I’m pregnant. Don’t worry, the baby isn’t yours. Of course it isn’t yours. I haven’t seen you in so long.
I’m living in this cute little apartment in MidSlo. It’s got this big window facing East and in the mornings and sets everything on fire. I quit drinking, since I’m pregnant and all, and stopped doing coke. I’ve got this man now, and he’s really so wonderful. He plays the piano like he means it. We’ve got a little upright in the living room of our apartment and he tunes it so carefully. He takes me out dancing every Thursday night. He works in a grocery store but he gets Fridays and Saturdays off, so Thursday nights are like his Friday nights. It’s nice because the clubs are quiet and we can really get lost in each other. The baby isn’t his either, but he knows and he says he loves me anyway, and he’s going to stick around and raise the child like his own. He gave this huge ring that I guess his mother wore. It doesn’t have a diamond but it’s made of real silver and has this big opal stone. He says it’s better than a diamond since diamonds are only expensive and fancy because of DeBeers. I think he’s a little embarrassed that he doesn’t have much money even though I’ve told him I love the ring and I don’t care too much about money as long as we can eat and have someplace to get out of the rain. He’s a good man, but he’s a little silly with his damned pride sometimes.
You know, Charlie, I think about you every time I drive past Gimmlet’s. I think about how many hours we spend in there, you leaning on the pool table or sprawled in the corner booth. I remember the time you puked in the back alley, and our initials are still carved in the pavement of their patio. I haven’t been inside since you left, but I wonder if that weird painting you did is still hanging on the wall over the jukebox. I’m sorry to say I don’t have the one you gave me anymore, the one of the naked man hiding behind a giant rose. Somebody stole it right off my wall a few years back. Can you believe that shit? I guess it’s a compliment to you, though. Somebody liked it so much they stole it. But I’m sorry I don’t have it anymore. It was one of your better paintings, I think.
It’s funny, but I can’t picture you any way other than how I knew you. I’ve seen your picture on the jacket of your new book, but I haven’t read it yet. I heard your interview on the radio too. At least you still sound the same. I guess LA couldn’t take the whiskey gravel out of your voice.
I don’t know if you remember, but once you tried to use an empty pint of Bulleit bourbon as a slide for your guitar. It sounded really awful, but you looked so proud of yourself. I kept that empty pint. Sometimes I put flowers in it, but mostly it sits empty on my window sill, catching the sun.
Sometimes I think about how much money you and I spent on whiskey and cocaine. What a waste, you know? If I had all that money now in a big lump sum, I think I’d buy Thin Man, that old used book store where you used to hang around trying to get people to read your short stories. I would buy Thin Man, but I wouldn’t sell anything. I would just wander around the aisles all day, reading all the books, picking authors as the mood struck me.
Charlie, Charlie, Charlie…
Nothing in that letter is true. I don’t really know why I wrote it.
I feel like a tired old whore, Charlie. I am used to telling lies. They come natural to me. Maybe I could have been a great writer like you if I had put my lies to paper instead of whispering them into the lips of men. That whole damned letter is a lie, but it reads pretty nice, doesn’t it? I don’t have a husband, he doesn’t play the piano. There’s no baby. I lost that empty pint bottle years ago. There’s no ring on my finger.
I do remember you, though, Charlie. I remember every time I see your name in the library or hear your voice on the radio. I think about you, you and a great many other things, in the long hours in between.
The truth is, Charlie, that I need to borrow money. I’ve got to pay off this lawyer who has been helping me with my case. It’s a whole story I won’t get into just now, but I do need money.
If everything goes well, I should be up for parole right around your birthday.
So, you know, if you should happen to be in Olovette around then…
Unfaithfully but sincerely yours,
Melody
* * *
I’m not Charlie. I found the letter tumbling along, carried by a slight breeze, through a vacant lot with all the usual cigarette butts and condom wrappers. The envelope was half opened, the letter still folded neatly inside. I don’t think it ever reached Charlie. I’m a long way from L.A. It must have gotten lost in the mail, somehow.
I kept the letter, even though it wasn’t mine to keep. The address on the envelope was too water damaged to make out. I couldn’t even figure out the last name of the Charlie it was intended for. I stepped into a used book store and browsed around, feeling the letter in my pocket like a talisman. I looked for authors with recently published books named Charlie. Of course, I had no way of knowing which one it would be. It wasn’t my duty anyway.
I bought a few paperbacks and went back on my way. I tucked the letter into the last page of one of the books I bought and put it up on my bookshelf. I think it’s still there now, but I haven’t looked at it in a while. Poor girl, tossed about, reaching out in the darkness like a melody you can never quite remember.