Pandora by Holly Hollander

Maybe whoever wrote it worked in an employment office, or maybe he was used to writing what Mrs. Maas called “characters” for himself. “Bravely and cheerfully” my foot!

Then it hit me—for himself. Right! All of a sudden I was perfectly sure there was only one of him, and all his talk about “we” and the “Army of Independence” was so much smoke. I still couldn’t see his hands on the keyboard, much less his face—just the jumping typeball and the little book of forty thousand words spelled and divided. But he was all alone there, I knew that. No revolutionary committee had read his letter over. Nobody had suggested changes or simplifications or corrections. There was just him there in his little room, typing and underlining.

He underlined a lot—three words in just a few lines. It’s supposed to be for emphasis, but I’ve noticed that people do it when they want to be ironic—I just love the way she treats me—or what’s practically the same thing, when they want to convince somebody of something that isn’t really true—I just love your new skirt! Okay, I’d already decided that the bit about several new members sounded fakey. (How would they know what to join, anyway?) So it seemed pretty likely that his other underlinings marked places where he wanted to put us on, too. The “attack” hadn’t been a complete success then, something had gone wrong. And he didn’t really plan to do anything else. (Right here I’m underlining for emphasis!)

That second part was good news for sure, but what had gone wrong? If he hadn’t killed enough people, and hurt enough, it would stand to reason he’d want to try again. But I’d already decided he wasn’t going to do that. So maybe what it was, was that he’d done more damage than he’d figured on; maybe he’d just wanted to scare everybody or something.

All that was okay, only when I got that far I was stuck. I looked and looked at that damn letter, and couldn’t come up with another thing. After a while, though, it hit me that a lot of other people had to be looking at it just like I was—detectives and policemen all over, mystery fans like me, even some mystery writers; and that one of those people would be Blue. So I dug his card out of my billfold and gave him a call.

“Did you see it?” I said. “I mean the bomb letter. It’s in today’s paper.”

“Yes, I’ve been studying it.”

Then I gave him all my deductions just the way I’ve written them down here, only maybe not so well organized. (You may have noticed that I’m usually better organized when I write than when I talk; when I talk I try to say it all at once.)

“I agree,” Blue said when I was finished.

“With all of it?”

“Yes. That is to say, I agree that all you’ve guessed is possible, though none of it is provable. We don’t really know, for example, that whoever wrote the letter was an expert typist. It’s conceivable that the writer carefully struck one key at a time, beginning again and again until at last a perfect copy was achieved. But it’s not likely. The most probable answer is the one you’ve given, and we should cling to it until there’s reason to doubt it.

“The business about ‘To Whom It May Concern’ seems quite a bit more chancy, although what you say is as convincing as any other possibility and more helpful than most; you must remember, however, that we don’t know the letter was mailed by the person who composed it. That’s conjecture, too, though again it’s sound conjecture. In addition, we don’t know that the copy mailed to the newspaper was the only copy sent out. Suppose that carbons were made, to be mailed to the police? Or suppose that the copy the newspaper received is a photostat? They don’t say that it is, and the article seems to imply that it is the original; but the article may be deceptive.”

Call me Practical Pig. “Isn’t there some way we can find out?”

“I have a friend at the paper—”

“I figured you would.”

“Who’s promised to call me back to clear up several points, including that one. When he does, I’d like to speak with you. I’ve turned up certain facts that I think may interest you. Is your father home yet?”

“’Fraid not. Maybe tomorrow.” I was hoping he would be, but the truth was I didn’t have the least idea. “Just the same, I’d like to see you.”

“You will,” he said, and hung up. I had put down the phone before it hit me that I’d told him all the stuff I’d figured out but he hadn’t told me any of his—just showed me how some things I’d said could be wrong, even if I was sure they weren’t. He hadn’t said when he might be along, either. Naturally he didn’t know, because he was waiting for his newspaper friend to call, but that didn’t make me any less mad. I sat up in bed turning the pages of that damned old paper till I’d convinced myself he wouldn’t come at all, and then I nearly cried.

Mrs. Maas brought up a tray with cocoa (I’m a cocoa addict) and a chop, and spinach and lyonnaise potatoes, and my absolute top favorite of all desserts, which is strawberry shortcake with a buttered beaten biscuit for the shortcake.

Then I did cry, and Mrs. Maas kissed my forehead like Glinda the Good and said, “There, there”; but she thought it was just my leg and so on. But all of a sudden I knew it was because I had remembered one time when Larry had picked up Megan and Les and me in his van and taken us to a greasy spoon on Highway 14. They’d had Cokes or Mr. Pibb or something, but Larry and I’d had cocoa, which he’d called “hot chocolate.”

Now Larry was dead, truly dead, rotting in a funeral parlor in a coffin with the top nailed down, and I would never be able to drink cocoa again without thinking of him a little bit, and I had never really cried for him before.

It felt good; it felt like there had been this round, hard, bitter thing down below my heart all this time, and the tears that really soaked into my sheet went down there somehow and melted it.

Pretty soon I heard a beater (that’s an old junker that rattles and rumbles) out front, and I knew that it would be Aladdin Blue. By the time he’d made it up the stairs I was scarfing my chop just as nice as you please.

He said, “How’s the invalid?” and I said, “What did you find out from your pal on the paper?”

“It was the typed original they got, not a xerographic copy or a carbon—that was the point you were interested in.”