And now she leaned back suddenly in her desk chair, put her hands over her eyes, and began to weep. She wept for almost ten minutes-great noisy shaking sobs in the deserted house-and then she began to type again. She stopped frequently to swipe her arm across her streaming eyes, trying to clear her blurred vision. After awhile she began to get ahead of the tears.
… so I leaned forward and spit in his face, only it wasn’t just spit; I hit him with a really fine gobber. I don’t think he even noticed, but that’s all right. It wasn’t him I did it for, was it?
I will have to pay a fine for the privilege and Brandon says it will probably be a hefty one, but Brandon himself got out from under with only a reprimand, and that’s a hell of a lot more important to me than any fine I might have to pay, since I more or less twisted his arm up behind his back and then lockstepped him to the hearing.
And I guess that’s it. Finally it. I think I’m really going to mail this, Ruth, and then I’m going to spend the next couple of weeks sweating out your reply. I treated you shabbily all those years ago, and while it wasn’t strictly my fault I’ve only come to realize lately how often and how much we are moved by others, even when we are priding ourselves on our control and self-reliance-I still want to say I’m sorry. And I want to tell you something else, something I’m really starting to believe: I’m going to be okay. Not today, not tomorrow, and not next week, but eventually. As okay as we mortals are privileged to get, anyway. It’s good to know that-good to know that survival is still an option, and that sometimes it even feels good. That sometimes it actually feels like victory.
I love you, dear Ruth. You and your tough talk were a big part of saving my life last October, even though you didn’t know it. I love you so much.
Your old friend,
P.S.: Please write me. Better yet, call… please
Ten minutes later she laid her letter, printed and sealed within a manila envelope (it had proven too bulky for an ordinary business-length envelope), on the table in the front hall. She had gotten Ruth’s address from Carol Rittenhouse-
She went to the window in the parlor and stood there for awhile before going upstairs, looking out over the Bay. It was starting to get dark. For the first time in a long time, this simple realization didn’t fill her with terror.
“Oh, what the fuck,” she told the empty house. “Bring on the night.” Then she turned and slowly climbed the stairs to the second floor.
When Megan Landis came back from running her errands an hour later and saw the letter on the table in the front hall, Jessie was deeply asleep beneath two down comforters in the upstairs guest room… which she now called
