The Mystery Texter - Chapter 3 (of 8)
When we all separated for college, Abbi had gone to Bradley University in Peoria. She was close enough that we saw her during most breaks and even once in a while for a long weekend. She majored in Library Sciences and took a job at a high school in Tampa after graduation. A year later, in 1995, Abbi wrote a letter to Laura and me. Back in '95, we didn't even have email accounts yet. The Internet was in its infancy and people still wrote letters. Inside the envelope was a typical letter updating us on her job and her life in Tampa. There was a smaller sealed envelope inside the bigger envelope with the words, "open me last" written on it. Laura and I read the secret inner letter together. It turned out to be a "coming out" letter. Not only did she come out, but she announced that she had a partner, Patricia, and had chosen a date for their commitment ceremony.
We were so happy for them. Of course we flew down to Tampa for the wedding. Long before it could be legally recognized as such, we called it a wedding because that's what it was. Laura, seven months pregnant with Todd at the time, stood up as Abbi's Best Person. Patricia was twenty years older, but you'd have to be told to know it. What was obvious was their love.
Three years ago, Patricia died suddenly from a brain aneurysm, much too young in her sixties. Their time together was cut short.
When Patricia died, Laura and I called or texted her every day for months. We were there for the service, but also, three weeks later, we went down again, after everyone else had returned to their normal lives, and we spent another week with her. A year later, after Laura's accident-crash-death-murder, Abbi reciprocated with me.
Not long after Patricia died, Abbi sold her house in Tampa and moved back to Chicago for a much needed change of scenery. She works as an administrator at CPS (Chicago Public Schools). We're kindred spirits, Abbi and I. We understand each other. We empathize with each other.
Empathy sucks.
These days, Abbi is like my second sister. As we pull apart from our hug, the buzzer sounds again. I ask her to let Charlie in while I tend to things in the kitchen.
Charlie lives in Dayton, both seventy minutes and miles away. The three of us try to get together monthly, but usually, we go longer. Charlie, divorced for five years now, has two kids in high school. Theresa, his ex-wife, and their kids live in Dayton so that's where Charlie keeps his apartment. He has the kids every other weekend and, being in high school, they have all kinds of sports and activities. Charlie never misses any of it. He is often the reason why the three of us have trouble lining up our calendars and scheduling time together. But Abbi and I understand. The kids come first.
Unlike with Jose and Angela, Charlie and Theresa are on good terms. They have a healthy co-parenting relationship. And money isn't a factor; they both have six-figure incomes. I guess it's easier to have a healthy divorce when nobody is arguing over assets and finances.
We never really knew why Charlie and Theresa split up. Whenever asked, Charlie shrugs and says matter-of-factly, "Why do people ever split up? It just didn't work out."
He seems pretty happy though. He has a full, busy, maybe even hectic life juggling the complexities of work, visitation and his kids' extracurricular activities.
Charlie went to Penn State and majored in Marketing. We only saw him during summers and at Christmas. The four of us maintained our friendship regardless. I gave Laura most of the credit for keeping our group tight over the decades; she was the glue keeping us all connected.
Charlie always imagined himself in an artistic role; the mastermind behind the cleverest commercials on television. Entertaining people with creative advertising. That's not how it worked out. It's nothing like what you see watching
Mad Men
. He's in management and he hires other people to do the creative work he wishes he was doing himself. I don't think he hates what he does and I know he's successful, it's just not his dream.
I greet Charlie and offer the television in case either of them cares about the Superbowl.
The TV remains off.
Like with Jose and Shelby last night, it's been too long. The good news is that Abbi and I are both in a place where stories about Patricia and Laura make us smile and laugh more than hurt and cry. We never thought that at this stage of our lives any one of us would be single but, for different reasons, all three of us are.
While we eat, we work our way through all of the obligatory family updates and small talk. Abbi is first to comment on my vibe. Can I fool anyone? I attempt to wave it off, but they both press me. I figured we'd end up having this conversation tonight anyway, so why fight it? I retrieve "the letter" from its dark hiding place and I let them both read it while I clear the dishes from the table and load the dishwasher. I emerge from the kitchen just as they're finishing.
Abbi goes first, "What the hell is this? Why didn't you tell us? When did you get it?"
"It just came Friday. It's only been two days and I'm telling you now."
I offer them my last two beers but they both decline. We move into the living room leaving the recliners empty and sitting close together on the loveseat with Charlie and Abbi flanking me on either side. It reminds me of how they protected me at school all those years ago when I finally returned. Abbi takes my left hand and Charlie puts his left arm around my shoulders.
I tell them, "I'm not the only one who got a letter."
They look at each other and it hits them simultaneously. "William," they say in unison.
"Yep. He texted me Friday night."
Charlie is surprised, "I didn't know you were in contact with him. Are you two...friends?"
"No." It comes out too defensive. "Not at all. I've hardly seen him for thirty years. Back when his sister died, my dad, Laura and I went to the service and William guilted me into exchanging phone numbers. We've never called each other but he sends me a text every now and then. I rarely respond, but this time I had to. I just met with him a few hours ago."
They both drop their jaws.
"It was the first real time I've spent with him since, you know... That night. I didn't want to. I had no choice. He said he had 'information' that I'd need to know before talking to Warren Lewis's lawyers. I felt like I had to hear him out."
Charlie asks, "So was he bluffing or did he really know something?"
I never told Laura, Charlie and Abbi about the "cocaine incident" in my car or really anything about what William and I did that night. The brutal finality of how that night ended made everything else that happened seem meaningless. Insignificant.
I take a deep breath and I tell them the story of my meeting with William. I start by going back to 1989 and working my way forward. I tell them almost everything.
"How is he even still alive?" asks Abbi.
"He says he's been clean for a long time now. I have no way of knowing if that's true, but he didn't seem high today. Either way, he's not winning at life." I describe his cadaverous appearance.
Charlie warns me, "You need to be careful. Don't feel sorry for him and let your guard down. You've always had a weak spot for him."
"He
was
my friend. It was never like with you guys, but I knew him my whole life. It wasn't a weak spot. He was a victim that night too."
I don't know why I'm defending him. At some point the whole "victim" thing has run its course. It's time to move on, right?
"I'm just saying, his life should have turned out differently and it's not completely his fault that it didn't."
Charlie sighs, "Okay. My point is, you come first. Protect yourself. Keep your priorities in order."
Leya's been telling me the same thing. The truth is, I've been doing that for over three decades now.
Friday, November 10
th
