Later, Charles came in with tea. No one was there.
He saw a sketch on the table.
Go away, he whispered.
He didn’t mention it to anyone else.
He didn’t touch the sketchpad.
What he wrote:
My darling Angela,
I regret to tell you that I have, apparently, been sacked. Or not sacked per se, but temporarily relieved of my duties. Fortunately for the two of us, I will remain on the rolls, which is good, because I don’t know how I would eat otherwise. I might have considered joining you in Westhoughton, but the rails are closed for the time being. Only military business now, and rarely that. It is oddly quiet without the regular churn of the engines. I never thought I would miss it, but I do.
I do not know what I have done to deserve the ire of my commander. He said they were overstaffed, but I know for a fact that is a lie. Every man in the office cowers under the stacks waiting on his desk. The commander was not, however, unkind. He told me to divert myself, that I would be back on my feet in no time, and to have a stiff upper lip and so forth, which was nonsense because I shall still be paid and shall apparently return after a suitable time. Suitable for what, they could not say.
But fortunately, after an unpleasant day, I came home and discovered that your letter was not in the post basket with everything else, but was resting prettily on the mantel, which means that our dear Andrew must have seen it and brought it in as a surprise. Don’t worry about my mother. I’ll write to her. Everything will be beautiful.
Yours,
John
What he did not:
He celebrated his newfound free time by enjoying a lovely afternoon with his shining American, accompanied by three liters of a lovely Côtes du Rhône from his jealously guarded prewar cache of wine, drunk directly from the bottles. The American spoke little, drank much, and was exquisitely, brutally beautiful. The walls shook. The bed moaned. The American left at sunset, pausing, briefly, at the door, and slipping away without a word. While drinking what was left of the wine, John read and reread Angela’s letter so many times, he began to recite it.
When he woke, he squinted at the slant of light penetrating his room. He rubbed his eyebrows and between his eyebrows and blinked. Then, he blinked again. A girl stood in the light, a pretty girl staring first at the sun, then at her hands. John cleared his throat. The girl turned to him, smiled, and vanished. John fell heavily back onto the pillows. The girl, of course, looked like Angela, and was Angela. But it could not have been, so it must not have been. He sat back up and the room was empty, as it should be.
He yawned and noticed the letter from Angela was now on her pillow. He had, apparently, resealed it, de-creased it, and placed it where her head should go. He laughed at himself, at what drink can do to a man. He wrapped himself in a robe and padded into the kitchen. The letter was there too, sealed and unopened. He opened it. It was the same letter.
Three letters leaned against one another in the fireplace, their edges now seared by the hot remains of yesterday’s coal. Two letters floated in the sink. Six had been slipped between the door and the jamb and stuck out like nails waiting to be hammered in. And somewhere quite close, a girl was singing.
John gathered the letters in his hands and stood by the window. Bringing the paper to his nose, he closed his eyes and breathed them in. Lilac, of course. And lavender. He let them fall; they spun like dry leaves and scattered on the floor. He sat down and wrote to his mother.
What she wrote:
Dearest John,
Today I sang in your honor, and I found that I could not stop. All day I have been here, drawing portraits of light. Singing odes to light. I open my mouth and light hangs upon my mouth, drips from my tongue, spills down my front, and pools at my feet. Charles came in with tea. (Did I want tea? Do I even drink tea? It’s strange, but I have only a vague notion of the substance of tea. I believe it is not unlike the consumption of light.) He is so pale, poor man. I took his hand. His skin was papery and cool. My hand slipped over it like graphite along the clean space of an empty sheet. He shivered. I could not feel him shiver—not with my hands, anyway. But I felt it all the same. Within. If you understand. Do you understand? You always did understand. There was a day when I learned to see. And learning to see, and making art, and loving you were bound inextricably together. Much now, my dear, is unbound, but those three remain.
Once, there were people in the window. Do you remember, my love? Their mouths were pink and open, and their hair floated like seaweed. It floats still. Charles told me to go away, but you would never tell me so.
Not you, John.
Never, ever you.
Angela
What she did not:
She knew to keep her distance from the windowpanes. The people inside were clearer to her now, clearer than they had ever been. She had always seen them, of course, ever since that day when she was a child. But never directly. They had hovered vaguely at the corners of her eyes, the glass clearing itself every time she stared straight on.
But now they sharpened; they defined themselves. They pressed
